


the shroud has no pockets

by minkspit



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Ableist Language, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Developing Friendships, Friendship/Love, Gen, Mar'i comes to Earth, Mild Language, Paranoia, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Racist Language, Rescue Missions, Son of Batman AU, Unreliable Narrator, War, What Have I Done, friendship space opera, please care about all of these children DC, traumatized kids learning to love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 15:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17470466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkspit/pseuds/minkspit
Summary: Suren Darga is reformed (mostly). He's trying to be. So when a mysterious comet crashes outside of Gotham, Suren bolts at the chance to prove himself as a hero. He does not expect to find a newly fallen-to-Earth Mar'i Gree'sun. The blood and friendships start flying from there. Angry Tamaraneans, grand theft auto, bad jokes, space rescue missions, super kids, irritable cats - who doesn't love the modern world?





	1. Life Itself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyoftheShield](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheShield/gifts).



The spring sunlight was dripping onto Gotham slowly, bringing a promise of warmth. It bathed the rooftop gargoyles with gold and never made it to the streets below. Suren thought Gotham was one of the coldest cities he had ever lived in. Neither ancient Lebanon nor Dinosaur Island stayed chilly this long. Suren resented wearing a cloak and a coat when he took a walk outside, and he resented how Alfred Pennyworth had to explain 'hand warmers' to him, because the butler was definitely - definitely - laughing at him.

But since Damian had named a cat after Alfred, Suren guessed the Pennyworth servant was very important to him. Which meant Suren couldn't vaporize him.

"That's a pity," Suren grumbled to himself, hand propping up his cheek as he stared out the Wayne Manor window. Bruce Wayne, Damian's father, was talking out on the lawn with Damian's least favorite sibling. They seemed to be having a great time.

The least favorite sibling laughed. Suren couldn't remember his name. He just knew him as 'the skinny pale one.' The very pale one. The one so pale Suren had first believed he was on his deathbed when he met him, and asked him if he was dying, which had made Batman choke on his drink.

Suren remembered that dinner vividly. It had been during his second week in Gotham and his first week staying in the manor. It also had been a Tuesday. No one had trusted Suren, but it didn't mean they were going to starve him. Suren had been keeping his magic and sword-swinging in check, like a good guest. Den Darga hadn't raised an animal.

Maya had been off feeding Goliath; Damian had been off visiting his oldest sibling in Bludhaven. Which left one uncomfortable Suren Darga at the table with an unmasked Batman and Red Robin, who also looked uncomfortable. Especially when Suren asked him if he was terminally ill.

"No," Tim had said, an odd look on his face. "I'm not terminally ill."

Suren squinted at him. "Are you certain?"

"I'm positive."

"You may want to check again," Suren said, finishing off his drink. He was comfortable at Wayne Manor's empty big table. It reminded him of home. Even if nothing else did. "You look anemic. You and Damian's father. And the head servant. And half of everyone in Gotham. But mostly you. Find a local healer."

While Batman was coughing on his drink, head servant Pennyworth had reappeared.

"More rolls, Master Darga?" he said.

"Absolutely," Suren said. "Can I have more apple juice, but in the silver goblet from the display case?"

"For the third time, Master Darga," Pennyworth said, polite, "no. That is a family heirloom."

"They let me use fancy goblets in Arabia," Suren said, hoping a repetition would change the outcome. "My father beheaded those who stopped him from doing so."

"With all due respect, Master Darga, your father is not here. Killing is forbidden in the Wayne-al Ghul household."

Suren narrowed his eyes. "Fine. Then I would just like some more apple juice. Please."

"Absolutely."

Batman finished coughing. It would be a while longer before Suren thought of him as 'Damian al Ghul's father.' "Suren," Batman said, "I think we need to have a conversation."

Red Robin, the least favorite sibling, excused himself from the table with haste.

In the present, Suren sighed.  _As it turns out,_  he thought, sulkily doodling a red-breasted bird on a sliver of paper,  _some people are just white._

The bird looked bad. Especially in comparison with Damian's drawings Suren had seen. He lit the paper on fire with a flick of fingers. Suren watched it curdle to nothing. He swept the ashes into the nearest wastebasket. Outside, Damian's least favorite sibling finished talking to Damian's father and left. Suren knew he would be back.

_Red Robin._  That's who that person was. That's who was spying on Suren every day, besides Black Bat, to make sure he was behaving himself. Suren watched Bruce Wayne go inside before he laid his head on the desk.

_All of this,_  Suren thought,  _is Damian al Ghul's fault._

A lot of things were Damian's fault. Some of them were Maya's, too, but Suren found it more satisfying to blame Damian. That was one modern trend he was on-board with. After Ra's al Ghul had broken Suren's leg on their last mission, one the League of Assassins was not supposed to appear in, Damian had become exceedingly paranoid. What if Ra's snatched Suren? What if Ra's snatched Suren and then snatched Damian? What if he used Suren's exploited powers to snatch Damian? The list of concerns multiplied.

So it was Damian al Ghul who had suggested that Suren come stay with his family to lay low and heal - after holding a knife to his throat and making him promise not to hurt anyone. (Suren had gone along with it. He'd even said والله). He had sworn everyone's identity to secrecy with magic more ancient than the Darga bloodline itself. And then, one week before Suren's cast had been removed, Damian, Maya, and Goliath had abandoned him.

At least, that's how it felt. Goliath had tussled with Bat-cow one time too many then gone to visit Themyscira to learn some self control. Or receive some Amazonian belly rubs. Then Maya and Damian had smelled something brewing and prepared to visit Talia and infiltrate the League of Assassins. Both them had informed Suren he was sitting this one out.

"I can accompany you," Suren insisted. "I have magic. I'm above you. I can help more than you can."

"One, that was an awful attempt at persuasion," Damian said, pulling his gloves on. "Two, your leg is broken. So no. You're not coming."

"Also," Maya added, "it's because you stick out like a sore thumb. Stealth isn't your strong point. You talk like you're at a Renaissance Festival sometimes."

Suren glared at her. He hoped Maya's puff of messy morning hair didn't keep her from seeing his displeasure.

"We are going to Saudi Arabia. English is not necessary. I do not sound archaic in Arabic," Suren argued.

"Not we. Us. Sorry, Suren." Maya squeezed his shoulder.

Suren did not like the way Damian was minding his own business. He crossed his arms and pushed up an tingling, unpleasant sheet of magic until Damian was forced to acknowledge him.

"Unfortunately," Damian said, "you sound archaic in every language."

"What's wrong with speaking Classic Arabic?"

Suren found that Lebanese Arabic was the most natural dialect for him to speak, especially in the modern world, but after Damian had laughed at him for sounding soft mid-threat about gluing a jar of rats to someone's face, Suren had a) punched Damian and b) elected to keep that to himself. So Classical Arabic whenever possible it was.

"Nothing, Suren. You'd be right at home in the League of Assassins," Damian said. "But even then, you do things like accuse billboards of witchcraft. It's not going to work."

"That was once, Damian al Ghul," Suren said. Maya's hand slipped off his shoulder. "Once."

Right as Maya said "Stop calling him that" Damian said "You're hurt. Ra's is looking for you. You're not coming."

So that was that. Suren Darga was alone. He had been moldering in the Wayne Manor for the past three weeks. Every day was a loop of meditation, training, magic practice, aimlessly browsing books, and a lot of nothing. Sometimes Damian's family came through, but they were all on missions, or here to see someone else, so he didn't speak to them. Suren felt like he was rotting. He restlessly turned his head and switched which cheek he had pressed against the desk surface.

Den Darga's gravelly, liquid gold voice rose in the back of Suren's head.

_Idleness is a sign of worthlessness. Get up. Do something. Cease wasting my time and yours. You did it enough before you failed me._

The buzz of a text arriving sent Suren stumbling out of his seat. He caught his phone before it tumbled from his pocket hit the floor.  _I hate cellphones,_  Suren thought, his hands shaking as he fumbled to hit what Oracle had called 'the home button.'  _I hate all phones._  For a moment, the phone's vibration had felt in tune with his father's voice.

When Suren finally managed to get the screen lit up, he saw it was a text from Maya.

"Starting to get into srs stuff," it said. "Won't be able to talk for a while. Hope ur good. Dami says hi."

For a long second, Suren stared at the text. Then he slid his fingers down the phone's side and shut it off. The incessant little light on the phone's face that meant he had a message would not stop flashing. Suren could never make it cease without clicking into his messages, but today, he did not want to do that. His reflection stared back at him in the phone's face, mocking him.

Suren turned it over on. The phone stayed on his desk as he got up, pacing. His sword, skull helm, and gear lay in a corner of his room, polished and unused. His bed was made without a wrinkle. It looked profoundly unfriendly. None of the books on Suren's desk drew his eye.  _There has to be something,_  Suren thought.  _There has to be something._  What do other people do to busy themselves when they are not plotting to kill the world?

His window, which faced the west, brightened with Robin-red light. Sunset bloodied Gotham's streets. Suren hadn't realized how fast time had passed. It was too late to visit the Lebanese bakery five blocks away. They closed early. Suren had no idea where else he would go to feel at home. There were no missions for him to run, no people to command. No one to speak to. He wanted to scream.

Maybe a walk around the manor would help. Yes. This western mansion was full of shadow-ghosts and gloom, but that was better than nothing. Suren paced out of his room, leaving his sword behind. I'll just take my dagger with me, he decided. That makes Black Bat look at me less strangely. But then I can still train if I want to.

Suren's room was on the third floor. When he emerged, he had slip down two sets of foreboding stairs to get to the main floor, and another few to reach the Batcave. He could not levitate down anymore after he had startled Pennyworth one night. Suren only resented it a little.

When Suren reached the second floor, he heard voices crossing the atrium. Immediately, he stilled. Since no one wanted to tell Suren Darga anything, he had to learn it himself. The footsteps had a clack under them; the voice sounded higher. Did that mean heels? Suren wasn't sure. The future had a lot more shoe choices to offer. He scrunched his face, listening.

"I'm not sure I like it," the voice said, crossing the room. "Damian was bad enough, at first."

Suren knew who it was now. It was Batgirl. The girl with the long blonde hair. The one Damian liked wrestling with. When Suren had first seen her hair, looking like a tangled seaweed bunch of flax hanging from her head, he had asked to touch it. He he been denied. Then he had demanded to touch it. He had been denied. Then he had touched it. He had been hit. Batgirl was not one of Suren's favorites. Not that he had a favorite. He talked to none of Damian's family outside of training.

"I know he's come around," Stephanie said. "I love him. This isn't about Damian. I don't know how I feel about the manor becoming Bruce Wayne's Center for Murderous Misfits, not more than it already is. None of us know what to do with him, Tim. Damian didn't ask anyone before he invited him. And now he knows everything."

Suren's chest was tight. Fire flared around his hands. He imagined Batgirl's flax hair going up in flames, then her face, until it melted into the facsimile of a drippy skull. Like a match head. Batgirl no-name had no right to talk about him like this.

"Of course I'm not mean to him." Stephanie headed into another room, her voice fading. "The kid deserves a better life. But I didn't sign up for this. I can sense he wants to hurt us sometimes, even if he doesn't do shit. Cass can too. That's all. It's not the friendliest atmosphere. Whatever, Tim…"

His hands were hot. Suren squeezed them into fists, forcing the flame out of them. He didn't know if the shame or the embarrassed anger was brighter.  _Weak,_  Den Darga's voice said in his head.  _Weak, weak, weak._

"I don't do that anymore," Suren muttered to himself.

_Because you're a disgrace._

Suren decided he was going to search for his purpose in life in the opposite direction Batgirl had gone. He jogged up the stairs, definitely not fleeing, since Suren Darga didn't flee, until he had no stairs left. His legs burned. Suren dwindled to a stop in the middle of the top floor's hallway.

Couches and the widened floor suggested this was a reading nook. Two ancient shelves covered in novels flanked the walls. Suren thought of his home with a pang of nostalgia. The more he considered what he missed, the faster it faded. Windows larger than the shelves peered out onto the gloomy, rolling lawn of the manor. The sun was down. Unfamiliar stars speckled Gotham's night. Suren saw nothing but folds of dark grass that consumed themselves and the few decrepit keeper's sheds on them. There was no moon. Suren could not even use the sky to guess where Dinosaur Island was.

_This place is unwelcoming,_  Suren thought.  _Even the grass looks cursed._  He pressed a brown hand to the cold pane.  _I should have gone somewhere else after Damian and Maya left._

There was no moon, but the sky was brightening. Burning blue light traced Suren's face. He looked up. His eyes widened.

A comet plummeted across the horizon, then out of the sky. It burned an infuriated teal and red. Its tail ripped through the stars around it. Suren's heart thrummed. He bolted to the other side of the manor to follow its trail, levitating the last few steps to make to the window. Suren smacked his fist on the window frame when it vanished. He heard a faint commotion downstairs.

Well, Suren thought, only one thing to do.

* * *

"The comet landed here," Oracle said, rising out of her wheelchair to point at a place on the Batcave screen. A map was pulled up. Highways and markers glowed on the screen's edge like the spread entrails of a computer. It made Suren's head hurt with a desire to learn everything. The comet's marker sat in the blissful darkness. "The Justice League noted an unfamiliar object entering the atmosphere an hour ago. They're not sure what it is. Maybe the debris of a ship. Authorities haven't investigated yet. We don't think it damaged any buildings or disturbed traffic when it hit."

"Do we know what it is?" Batgirl leaned on the computer desk, her eyes focused on the map. Suren tried not to look at her for too long. Black Bat sat perched behind Oracle, enraptured by the distant mess of roads on screen. Oracle settled back into her seat.

"No," Oracle said. "We have no idea. But we'll find out soon."

"I'll investigate," Suren said.

Oracle and Batgirl turned to look at him. Suren made sure to make eye contact with Batgirl. I'm not mean, you flax-headed peon, he thought. I'll prove it to you. In preparation, he had already put on his boots and a coat. The hat he was wearing squashed down his hair over his forehead. Since Batman had declared his horned helm "too threatening," it was banished to his room until a later time. Suren's phone sat heavy in his pocket.

"Warm outside," Black Bat said.

Suren ignored her. "I can head there and back quickly. I can't teleport all the way there, but I can teleport close. Then all I have to do is walk there, examine the comet, subdue whatever creature might be in it, and leave. Simple."

"There aren't usually creatures in comets, Suren," Batgirl said. She leaned back from the computer screen. Suren painfully felt how much taller she was than him.

"Shows what you know," Suren said.

Batgirl's mouth twitched. "Babs, are we sure we want to do this?"

Oracle glanced at Suren. He felt the assessment in her gaze. Thick rectangles of light glinted up and down her glasses. It reminded Suren of being looked over by his mother, in a way, and he was not sure if he hated it or welcomed it. Suren fought off the eels in his stomach.

"Suren has a good track record the past few weeks," Oracle said. "He hasn't stabbed anyone or set them on fire in a while. If anything, he's far better about that than plenty of the rest of us have been. Steph, you said he was stir-crazy. Now's a good time for him to get out. Suren, if you investigate, you have to promise me you'll keep us updated. Call for assistance and fall back if something is wrong. Black Bat or Batgirl can assist you."

Suren bit back the "don't give me orders" sitting on his tongue. He was Suren Darga's son, and this was where he was right now? Remaining silent and taking commands from a cripple? He didn't need anyone's help. It only sounded appealing when Damian or Maya offered. But Oracle sat there with an air of dominance laced with concern, and the gazes of Batgirl and Black Bat were on him. Especially Black Bat.

"I can take care of it," Suren said.

"Good to hear it," Oracle said. She extended her hand. "Let me see your phone."

Suren handed the demonic device over. He had finally reread Maya's message and closed the digital mailbox. Oracle's hands typed something swiftly and surely on the glowing screen. When she handed it back to Suren, the same map on the Batcave screen looked back at him. The only difference were the comforting Arabic directions on his phone.

"Take samples if it's interesting," Oracle said, passing Suren a small pack.

"Right." Suren started when he felt Black Bat drop down behind him. "Gah!"

"And cloak," Black Bat said. She draped a black clock with a bat insignia on the clasp over his shoulders. "Take cloak too."

Suren jerked away from her. "Why do you always sneak up on people? How do you do that? Are you a demon?"

"Questions for another time," Batgirl said. "Leave him alone, Cass."

Suren had no idea if the mockery in her face was fond or not. He had little reference for both of those emotions. He pulled away, grumbling to himself. The cloak Black Bat had draped on him was long enough to reach the floor and then some. Suren inhaled.

"I will be back," he said, feeling blue magic pull at all the tiniest flecks of his being as he did.

Right before he disappeared and reappeared by cold roadside, Suren swore he saw Black Bat wave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's do this.
> 
> 1) I haven't read as much Son of Batman as I want to, so please correct me on Suren's powers if I write some incorrectly.  
> 2) Suren told Damian 'wallah' at the end of his promise. Ask your Arab friends.  
> 3) Roast me for any linguistic or cultural errors.


	2. Pistols At Dawn

The world came into focus around Suren in peels of crystalline light. One shimmering splinter at a time, the magic void receded, giving way to darkness. Suren exhaled when he felt his feet touch solid ground. The Batcave was gone. Cool air pinched his face; woods surrounded him. The stars were sickly pinpricks obscured by telephone lines. In the distance, Suren heard the sound of whooshing cars. Their headlights flew by like so many dim will-o-wisps.

Suren wrinkled his nose at the smell of exhaust. The present day had many new, enchanting smells, but this wasn't one he liked. Flickering red light bathed the trunks of trees in the distance. Suren checked his phone. He squinted as its screen lit up, blinding him. The directions matched up.

 _To think Batgirl doubted me,_ Suren thought.  _This is easy._

Discarded cigarette boxes and bottle caps crunched beneath Suren's boots. His cape dragged. Suren levitated to escape the annoyance. The edge of the cape continued brushing the forest floor. It raked pine needles and cardboard peels behind it.

As Suren approached the comet, he smelled something else: burning ozone. Metal in a forge. His body tensed. These were the scents of Den Darga going to war, but twisted with parts of a future he didn't understand. The closer he got, the more that awful familiarity grew. Heat blasted Suren's face as the forest ended with no warning. He lowered his boots to the ground. Burnt dirt and pebbles crunched.

 _This is definitely where the comet passed through,_  Suren thought.A swathe of broken trees lined his path. They all looked like snapped toothpicks. One stump pointed its jagged end at him, its splinters smoking yet. It felt like an accusation. A singular broken telephone line sparked above. Suren sent up a prayer to whatever Gotham wizard enchanted its electricity. Smoke poured from the crater in front of him.

Half of Suren wished he was wearing his horned helm instead of this stupid hat. He wanted to feel like a Darga - strong. The half of him Damian and Maya tended to, the half that felt bad for everyone he had killed, didn't. Suren hated himself for that.  _Why is being 'good' so hard?_ He stopped on the outskirts of a comet-made crater with a knot in his chest.

The world was on fire.

A dented metal pod lay in the crater's center. Smoke poured out of its seams. So did flames. Metal debris littered the crater, searing the ground; a broken rotor stuck out of a burning tree with boiling sap dripping around it. The rotor's origin - the pod's turbine - lay crushed beneath it, feeding the fire. Suren watched the shattered remains of blue-green windows on the pod melt in due to the heat. He smelled burning flesh.

A hand smacked against the inside of the last intact window.

Batgirl was calling him. Suren's phone trembled in his pocket. He did not answer. Suren slid into the crater, cursing. He stumbled over his cape before breaking into a run. Heat blistered his face as he pulled up short in front of the pod. The hand pressed against the window sunk out of sight. Suren cursed, again. The deformed pod door trembled.

 _If I don't help,_  Suren thought,  _whoever is inside will die, and then become a burnt carcass we cannot even identify._

That would not do.

Suren wreathed his hands in protective flame before he grabbed the edge of the pod door. Immediately, his hands sizzled. Suren dug his heels into the ground. He pulled back with all his strength, biting back a scream as his skin bubbled. The metal door quaked. His cloak end caught alight, the phone in his pocket tremored, and Suren's arms burned as the door shifted, his scream slipping from between his teeth.

The crumpled door flew off with a crash, hinges breaking. It clipped Suren in the arm. Suren yelped, tumbling away from the pod. Steam poured into the sky. As Suren got up, an bloody hand shot out of the steam, gripping the door frame. A silhouette lurched forward from the murk. Its breathing was ragged and raspy.

A pair of glowing green eyes stared down at Suren.

The thing in the ship was not human, even if it was shaped like one. The alien's orange skin lapped up the firelight. Its cropped black hair curled into purple flame at the end, swelling around the alien's face like a wrathful halo. Suren could not escape its green eyes, brighter and angrier than any emerald. Metal dented beneath the grip of its fingers. Suren immediately imagined what it could do to human bone.

Suren's first thought was  _That is a demon._

His second thought was  _That is a space demon, and it has come to kill mortals while wearing a glorified bathing suit._

The demon stood a full foot taller than Suren. It only seemed to grow taller as it stepped out of the pod, clutching a gash on its stomach. Maroon blood dripped from between its fingers. A dried blood splatter dulled the metallic purple of its shorts. Suren stood his ground as the demon limped towards him, spewing harsh syllables in a language he did not recognize.

"Who are you?" Suren said. "What are you? Explain yourself!"

The demon ground out more words. They sounded like glass shards rubbing together and guttural throat stops.

"I'm warning you," Suren said. "You're injured. We do not have to fight if you stop where you are."

The demon had the shredded remains of one knee-high boot on. The boot remains crumbled as the demon advanced towards Suren. It brandished a hand at him, its brows furrowing, voice growing hostile. Suren bristled.

"Cease your approach!" Suren drew his sword. The pod collapsed in on itself, throwing white-hot flecks of ash through the crater; his cloak billowed behind him in the vent of hellish air.

It knew what that meant.

Suren slashed the demon's arm open as it flew at him, its punch flying wild. It screamed, raw with fury. The demon pivoted, throwing a kick at him. Suren jumped away, burnt cape end tearing beneath his heel. His hat tumbled off. The phone in his pocket trembled again. Adrenaline pumped through him.

 _That could have broken my ribs._

Suren steeled himself as the demon clutched the wound on its belly again, panting. Blood slipped through its fingers, dotting the scorched ground. Its gaze stayed on Suren. He stood tall.

"Listen well, demon. I am Suren Darga, son of Den Darga, and ally of Damian Al Ghul," he said. "Of Batman. Earth is under my protection. I prevented it from going to Hell - I almost sent it to Hell. I won't hand it over to a dreg like you."

The demon spat out a mangled version of his name. It pointed at his bat-shaped cloak pin.

"Fear it," Suren said.

The demon backed away as Suren walked toward it, limping sideways as it went. Trying to escape. But the flames from the pod were filling the crater as engine oil leaked across the ground. It and Suren were almost surrounded. The memory of a violent, long gone summer day in the desert filled Suren's heart. Sweat dripped down the demon's brow.

"Comfortable?" Suren said.

The demon ground out an oath. Its foot slid onto the crumpled pod door. Blood dripped from its arm, the droplets hissing as they plonked onto the metal.

"Good," Suren said. He lit his hands.

The demon stomped on the pod door, flipped it into its hands, and hurled it at him.

"لعنـــــــة الله عليك!"

Suren heard the crunching of earth and yelled half a second before a green blur flew at him. His body jerked to the left without bidding, but not fast enough. Thirty pounds of metal collided with Suren's shoulder and the side of his head. White-hot agony burst through him. Suren's sword flew out of his hand. He dropped.

For a few seconds, Suren didn't know if he was dead or alive. There was nothing. Only paralyzed blankness. Then the pain ripped through the veil of shock. Suren gasped, tasting blood. Pebbles crunched beneath his cheek and spasming hands.

The phone kept ringing.

Suren couldn't turn his head. The demon rasped something out. Kicked the pod. Suren heard a whoosh - crushed gears turning, a dying engine gasping to life. Suren saw a blur that rattled through his spotty vision.

 _What is that?_  Suren thought.  _What is that? It sounds slower than an ill toddler. Why can't I stop it?_

The demon turned around. Footsteps neared Suren's head. He struggled to get up. His arms stayed useless jelly at his side. Suren gasped when fingers wound into his hair. The demon yanked him to his feet, then eye level with it. When Suren heaved, the demon grabbed him by the nape instead.

Suren's stared into the demon's face. Its flame hair made the swimming spots in his vision intensify. Involuntary tears leaked from Suren's eyes.

 _I'm going to die._

 _You failed._  His father's voice crawled through his head.  _After I all taught you. My lungs, my heart - why do you keep disappointing me? Are you a Darga or not?_

 _I'm trying, Father,_  Suren thought, as the demon's face drew closer, its eyes bigger than the moon.  _I know it is never enough. I am sorry._

The demon mashed its mouth to his. Suren coughed, the crackle of a broken teeth stinging his cheek. The demon pulled away quickly. Suren's blood smudged its mouth.

It said something. Suren wasn't sure what. His ears were ringing. So was his phone. The demon ripped his coat pocket open. It yanked his phone out.

"You're a dog," Suren rasped.

The demon dropped him. Suren groaned in agony on the ground. He was vaguely aware of the demon hunching over his phone. It pressed buttons. The call from Batgirl stopped. Suren struggled to stay conscious. The camera flash went off in the demon's face - once, then twice. It wasn't deterred. Suren could do nothing but lay there as it began hovering off the ground. The photos stopped. The demon's eyes narrowed in satisfaction when it located his map.

"Stop." Suren barely heard himself. He reached up, full of anger at feeling helpless. His arm wavered. "That's mine."

"Goth-am," the demon muttered.

It crushed the phone in its hand. The screen shattered. The demon dropped it on Suren and floated away. It extinguished the fires closest to him on its way. Then it took to the sky.

Suren gave up trying to stay conscious.

* * *

When Suren woke up, his head was pounding. He lurched onto his knees. Ash flecks stuck in his hair. It was still dark. Most of the fire was out. The demon was gone. So was its pod. Suren groaned. His collarbone shrieked in pain every time he moved. So did his head. He tasted metal. Suren grimaced, spitting out the remains of a tooth.

"Ow."

Suren had no baby teeth left. Right now, he wished he did.  _The demon hit me hard_.

The demon! It was out there! Suren almost vomited when all his emotions and thoughts surfaced. Most of it was panic. Suren held his head in his hands. He choked on the ghost sensation of the demon's grip in his hair.

 _No, no, no. Stop it._

Suren wrangled his heartbeat into a more regular one. The crater's grit dug into his arms. He took a deep breath, making himself focus on the shattered remains of his cellphone.

So much for contacting Batgirl or Oracle. Suren bet they were furious about his lack of a response.  _They must think I ignored them._  Which he had been, for the first part. For a second, he pictured them dumping his items into an open chest with relief. The act of imagining hurt. Suren gritted his teeth.

 _Think, Suren. The demon is out there. What's the most important action to take first?_

The answer came easily:  _contact Damian's family. Kill it._

Suren crawled forward, grabbing his sword. He forced himself to his feet. The urge to vomit returned. He ignored it. All the training beat into him over his lifetime made him rather want to die than throw up. Suren gripped his sword, hard, when he saw the demon's pod was gone. What did it need its ship for? It could fly.

Again, Suren shut out all of the questions and feelings flopping around his mind.  _I need to tell Damian's family,_ he told himself.  _We need to finish this while we can._

His phone was broken and his head was in shambles. Teleportation was out of the question. Suren groaned. This left him with one option - commandeering a vehicle. At least the highway was nearby. Suren found vehicles suspicious. He didn't trust a box metal with wheels to do Goliath's deed. But now it seemed he had no choice.

Suren cursed, snatching up his hat. He limped into the woods, leaning on trees and his sword while he went. Every time he imagined the demon's face peering into his, he clenched his fists or slashed at a clump of crumpled wildflowers. If the demon snuck into the city, they were in trouble. Suren kicked a clump of space debris out of his way, almost tripping over it as he did. His head and collar ached.

Oracle's samples could wait. They had a more immediate problem.

 _This is going to be a long walk,_  Suren thought.

* * *

* * *

 The Tamaranean did not think she could get the pod working again, but when the human lay crumpled on the ground, she did. It spluttered alive in the flames again. The broken pod levitated, still burning. It drifted towards the woods. Its broken turbine dragged behind it.

The Tamaranean did not care if it went far. It just needed to be away from the crater. They could not see it. They could not find her. She heard the small, angry human on the groan. She smashed her mouth to his in gliisp'i and stole language from him. Then she dropped him. Space called. Here was too exposed. She flew.

 _New place._  New place. It sounded wrong. Soft. No throat in it. The Tamaranean's mouth closed up around the syllables. New place was new. But that was where she was. The human's blood tasted like copper. She spat it out.

More syllables sunk into her battered body. Words. Sounds. Murky history. The Tamaranean's legs hurt as she drifted through the cold, unfamiliar night. The ozone tasted wrong. No heat. No thick atmosphere. She was so, so tired, and the strangeness bit at her with its many teeth. But the universe always bit.

The Tamaranean flew over square, tinny ships on four wheels, zooming over loops and loops of road. She flew towards the place on the map she had seen, the place full of dots and lines and… ناس. Peo-pl-e. The soft-not-soft things that lived here.

The spires on the planet grew taller. So many windows. So many lights. The hum of another world. The smell of ship exhaust. The Tamaranean drifted up over the horizon to see it all. She took it in, her wound already dripping onto the city below.

Earthbound vehicles honked. The city's spread of rectangular buildings with hard, grey walls looked back at the Tamaranean no welcome in them. Weak, tiny humans scurried through the streets.

 _Cit-y. City. Gotham. Alley._ The Tamaranean narrowed her eyes. Humans could not move her. She would hide here.

Wind tore at her hair's weak flames. The Tamaranean wobbled in the air. Her cut stomach hurt. Her arm hurt. Everything hurt. Exhaustion plumbed her to her marrow. The Tamaranean was alone. She tumbled from the sky in slow motion.

The Tamaranean tripped over her own curses. Fear forced her to stagger towards the darker streets. She was shaking by the time she lighted into a thin, cold alleyway. Cardboard boxes and dumpsters surrounded her. The Tamaranean's legs folded when her feet touched the ground. She collapsed.

The Tamaranean was not awake when a pale, red-headed boy stepped in front of her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the ill-formatted Arabic. My computer doesn't take to it well.
> 
> 1) As Damian noted, Suren tends to speak in Classical Arabic. That's what his exclamation/oath is. A lot of the other words are more common in Modern Arabic. Damian probably taught him those. Let me know if I use inconsistent dialects; I'm still deciding on Suren's modern one.
> 
> 2) It all goes downhill from here.


	3. Dangerous

Mar'i the Tamaranean woke up with a fuzzy taste in her mouth. There was a fuzzy feeling on her shoulders, too. It took her a moment to realize there was a worn out blanket pulled over her. Mar'i sat up, grimacing. The blanket fuzz snagged on all the little butterfly stitches holding her belly cut shut. It stuck to her bandaged arm, too. She kicked it away.

Mar'i eyed the room around her. The alley was gone. So was the angry human with the sword. Instead, she sat in a decrepit apartment. Floral wallpaper peeled off the walls. It was yellowed and stringy and Mar'i thought it looked like old skin. When she inhaled, she tasted dust. Her wounds tensed in pain. Mar'i's skin longed for the sun. Slates of black between the window blinds told her it was night. Thankfully, Mar'i did not think Earth nights were too lengthy.

_I have not been unconscious too long._

This whole location was a wreck. The boards beneath the walls were decrepit, too. All of them were grey with age. The floor was the same. It had been polished once. Not anymore. Dents filled the walls, scratches filled the floor. If this was Earth, Earth was depressing.

No weapons lay in sight anywhere. Pieces of a broken door sat stacked in the corner of the room. Smashed out remains of a wall stuck from the middle of the floor, showing where the apartment had been one room before its tenant decided to expand it. The other room had a kitchen.

The other room's kitchen counter was broken in the middle.

 _Someone who lived here,_  Mar'i decided,  _had a temper._

Mar'i pressed her hand to the floor. Instead of finding floorboards, her palm met an old mattress. A thin flannel blanket covered it.

Mar'i narrowed her eyes. She took in the bandages on her wounds, the crumpled half-full water bottle next to her, and the other nest of blankets nearby.A translucent bag of colorful flakes sat on the counter in the next room. A little clip held the bag shut. Mar'i assessed the item as potential food. The individually wrapped squares with pictures of wavy dried worms on them also seemed to be food.

 _Maru-Chan must be a successful merchant,_  Mar'i thought. But there was not time to consider that. A tiny heater perched beneath the broken desk nearby. Bottles of peroxide and half-emptied bandage boxes spilled across the top of the desk. Posters plastered the walls. Some doubtlessly covered holes.

Someone had patched Mar'i up. Someone lived here now. She needed to be ready for their return.

Mar'i's stomach growled. She considered ripping open the bag of colorful flakes, or biting into a worm block. Mar'i got up, fighting off any waverings. Anxiety pricked her, and she ran her fingers through her hair. Mar'i exhaled in relief. She did not think anyone had touched it. Feeling her fiery tresses run through her fingers soothed Mar'i. Her hair was growing out again. Good.

Mar'i stretched, then stepped off the mattress. She assessed the peeling wallpaper again, and the busted communication screen sitting on a milk crate.  _Television,_  her stolen tongue told her.  _To watch things._  Mar'i was tempted to put her foot through it. If it was a communication module, she did not need the human who found her telling others.

Anyone who saved her lacked good intentions.

Before Mar'i could peer at her reflection in the television screen, she heard footsteps outside. A key turned in the door lock. Mar'i drew herself up to her full height. It was time to meet her host. Before her muddled brain could pick out a proper human greeting, Mar'i's gaze fell to a poster on the door. Her heart locked up.

She did not remember what that red-winged symbol meant, or what a 'bat' was, but she knew it was not good.

The door knob turned. It creaked open with a rustle of plastic. Mar'i charged energy disks in her hands. The magenta electricity crackled in her fists, weaker than she wanted it to be. A white face peaked in, hesitant. Some crinkly bags poked through the door as the human slid in.

"Hey! Are you awake? Oh, wow, you're tall."

Mar'i waited until the human closed the door behind him before shooting an energy disk through the doorknob and lunging.

Grocery bags flew. The human yelped in surprise. Mar'i flew at him, grabbing for his wrists, but her hands met writhing flesh. The human twisted into a facsimile of himself six times larger and twice as tall as he had been. Huge hands gripped Mar'i's wrists. She sank her fingers into the tensile muscle of the facsimile's wrists, pushing back. It was steel wire made of tendons. Pliable but not.

"Hey!" The facsimile's voice was raspy and deep. It threatened to vibrate into incomprehensibility. "I'm not going to hurt you! Calm down! You're safe!"

Panic scoured Mar'i's body. Rage. She took flight, trying to tip the monster and break free. It dug its massive feet into the floor. The old boards groaned. Mar'i's feet kicked at the ceiling.

"Shit. Stop it! I'm on your side!"

When Mar'i tried to barrel roll, the facsimile grabbed further up her arms. She was yanked to a stop. Her muscles strained and nothing happened. Mar'i glared into the facsimile's face. A mop of red hair perched its craggy features. Its body was bulky, its features blurry. Veins popped on its arms. Its spine stuck out of its upper back in so many distorted rungs.

She screamed at it in defiance.

It screamed back.

Plaster chips tumbled from the ceiling. Mar'i stopped yanking against the facsimile's grip. Her chest heaved. She stayed floating several inches above the floor. The facsimile kept hold of her, but held her no tighter. It watched her, bewildered. Wary. The cut on Mar'i's belly burned. One of the bandages felt stuck on crooked. A thin trickle of blood inched down her arm. Mar'i felt ill. Her feet drifted towards the floor. The facsimile lowered its arms with her.

"It's okay," the facsimile said. "It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm not after you. You're safe."

Mar'i's feet touched the floor. The facsimile folded into a skinny human boy with red hair. He was half a head shorter than her. His shoulders were slimmer than Mar'i's. So were his biceps. His hands were calloused, thin clasps on Mar'i's arms.

They stood there until the boy pulled away. A seam on his shirt was split.  _Flannel,_  Mar'i thought.  _Fla-nnel._

"You're pretty strong," the boy said. "I thought you were going to throw me. Jeez."

 _I wanted to,_  Mar'i thought.

"Who are you?" she said.

The boy extended a hand. Mar'i narrowed her eyes. What did this gesture mean?

"Colin Wilkes," the boy said. "Nice to meet you. Who are you?"

* * *

* * *

 

Colin made bad decisions. He knew that. But harboring an aggressive, injured alien felt like a new low. He hung back with the grocery bags, watching his visitor prowl around the apartment. At the moment, she - Colin thought she was a she - was assessing the TV. She gripped both sides and stared into it.

"Please don't break that," Colin said. "I busted it once already, and I gotta replace the door knob already."

The alien roaming his living room ignored him. She ran her fingers along the bottom, pressing buttons until the TV turned on. A staticky infomercial filled the screen. She made a noise of… discovery? Colin wasn't certain. When he offered her a handshake, she had pushed his hand away. He got the feeling his guest wasn't too updated on Earth customs.

The alien wrinkled his nose as she flicked through other channels. Static blurred all of them.

"Sorry," Colin said. "There are barely any channels on it. It's all just public access."

The alien pressed a hand to the screen. Colin was glad she wasn't pacing anymore. After his exciting return, Colin had explained that he had found her and patched her up. She had let him fix her bandages and wipe the new blood off her arm. Then, his guest had turned to exploring the apartment. She had not said another word. Colin wasn't sure if his jitters were excitement or anxiety.

 _Superman wasn't like this, right?_  he thought.  _But Superman is Superman. She's not a Kryptonian. She's from wherever Starfire is from. I have no idea where that is. The word starts with a 'T.' I know it starts with a T. It sounds like 'tangerine,' or something._  But there wasn't exactly time to run to the public library to search 'where is Starfire from?'

"What's your name?" Colin tried again. "Mine's Colin. I need to know yours. I don't just wanna call you 'alien.' That's rude."

His guest pulled away from her staring contest with the TV. That made Colin worry less about the one scene from Poltergeist unfolding in his apartment. She paced into the kitchen. Colin threw the grocery bags full of medical supplies onto his desk and hurried after her. He kept his distance as she prodded at the stovetop coils, most of which did not work.

Watching an almost six-foot-tall, orange-skinned, green-eyed alien with flame hair bother his broken stove drove the situation in for Colin all over again. He inhaled, trying not to panic.  _What is she? Where is she from? Is she going to attack me again? I can handle her as Abuse,_ _but barely. What happens when she gets better? Who attacked her? What if there's something serious going on? Are more aliens coming?_

His guest yanked a stove coil out. She glanced at it, then glanced at Colin, before setting it down. She levitated to reach the upper shelves only Abuse could reach. Colin watched her float up with awe. Even in the dim room, the alien was radiant. Her burning hair emitted purple-blue light no matter the location. The remains of her outfit were made of stretchy space material Colin didn't recognize. A yellow diamond gleamed in the center of her top, right at the collar bone. The alien's eyes were big. She looked young. His age.

But she didn't look welcoming. If anything, she looked dangerous. Colin not forgotten the strength of her grip. It was hard to miss the burn scar that bisected her cheek, too. And her scrutinizing gaze. And the muscles.  _If someone turned an Olympic athlete into a kid Tangerinian,_  Colin thought,  _they would look like this._  That was the word, right? Tangerinian? Colin muffled a yelp of surprise when his guest bent down and lifted the oven up. Rusty metal screamed. Pipes and wires in the back clanked. Her arm muscles pulled taut.

"Hey, hey! Put that down!" Colin said. "You're going to hurt yourself!"

With a screech of rust, his guest put the stove down. She moved to investigating his sink. Colin knew he could morph and push her away if he needed to, so he let her be.

 _I'm sheltering a super-powered alien,_  Colin thought,  _in an abandoned apartment I'm not supposed to be in_.  _I'm lucky I ran away from St. Aden's. She could never hide there. How am I going to hide her here, if she doesn't backstab me first?_

The thought of hiding a Tangerinian in his ratty old orphanage pushed a laugh out of Colin. He sounded squeaky to himself. This was the coolest thing that had ever happened to him - one that didn't involve suffering - yet it was overwhelming. His guest ceased trying to turn on the spigot.

A stomach rumbled. Loudly. The alien's hand flew to her belly.

"Are you hungry?" Colin said.

For the first time in half an hour, his guest looked at him.

"Yes."

Colin considered the several ramen packets on his counter. Those were barely enough to feed him. The almost empty bag of Fruity Pebbles wasn't a prize choice, either.

"You're… a Tangerinian, right?" he said.

"I am a Tamaranean," the Tamaranean said.

"Okay," Colin said. "I was close. What do Tamaraneans like to eat?"

"Food," she said.

This was not going to be helpful. Colin dug his hands into his hole-riddled flannel pockets. He racked his brain for a solution. He didn't have much money. Turning in a few stolen bikes had gotten him $35 last week. The underworld bounty list didn't update all the time, and Colin didn't have time to subdue someone right now. He had money from beating up several of Black Mask's minions, but that dwindled every day. Today, Colin possessed $60 total. He bet it would not last.

 _I don't think she's a light eater,_  Colin thought, looking up into the face of his guest. The Tamaranean had stepped closer. Neither of them were in a hurry to get too close. Especially not after their stalemate.

"I know a place where we can get lots of food for cheap," Colin said. "Maybe it would be good to get you out of the apartment for a while, too."

"I have to hide," the Tamaranean said. "Outside, people will see me."

Colin was already heading towards the door. He grabbed the melted door knob.

"I'll be right back," he said. "Sit tight."

As Colin closed the door, he saw the Tamaranean drifting closer, looking at the poster over it.

* * *

$10 went a long way at a Crime Alley thrift store. Thirty minutes later, and Colin was loping towards a restaurant with a new well-disguised companion at his side. Since she refused to tell him her name, he had mentally taken to calling her Ripley.

Ripley wasn't picky. Colin was glad. He wasn't the best at choosing clothes. In his hurry, he had grabbed the first garments he saw.

As a result, Ripley was wearing a pink baseball cap, an oversized, tattered 'Gotham's Finest' hoodie with burn holes around the wrists, aviators, green basketball shorts, and some sneakers too big for her. Colin was thankful that her hair did not ignite the hat. He felt bad about shoplifting the sunglasses and the shoes, but Ripley had needed them. Colin got the distinct feeling that most of his money was going to food.

Ripley's stomach rumbled again. She pushed the aviators further up her nose. Crime Alley's crooked streets and flickering signs reflected in their lens. Colin had to lengthen his strides to keep up with her.

"I do not know if this is working," Ripley said. "My skin does not look like a human's. They can see my legs."

"Don't worry," Colin said. "Your hair and eyes were the main problems. They're covered. If someone gets nosy I'll handle it. Besides, people will just think you have a bad spray tan. "

"A spray what?"

"I'll explain later." Colin turned the corner. "We're here!"

Ripley hastened her already swift pace.

The Batburger on Miles Avenue and 19th Street had seen better days. Graffiti littered all of the posters outside. Two of the nicest additions were devil horns drawn on a Jokerized burger and a mustache doodled on Nightwing. Bars covered the restaurant's front windows. It was Colin's favorite place to eat. When he pushed open the dingy glass door, the bell tied to it rang. Colin and Ripley entered after glancing over their shoulders.

The dining room was several booths and tables. Grease saturated every surface of it, whether physically or in spirit. Ripley turned her head to take everything in. She pushed past a plastic red chair with disdain. Colin felt like he was taking an uneasy tiger into Batburger. Both children shuffled into the short line. Not too many people were eating here at 12 AM.

"See all the stuff up there?" Colin pointed at the panel of lit-up food pictures behind the counter. "Those are all your choices. Pick whatever you want."

"Everything," Ripley said.

"Yeah, everything looks good," Colin said. "But you can't have everything. I don't have the money for that."

"I want the fifteen," Ripley said.

"Do you really want The Signal fish sandwich, or are you just saying that 'cause it's the biggest number up there that has a sandwich? That's not gonna give you fifteen sandwiches, Ri - it's not gonna give you fifteen sandwiches. That's just the order number."

Ripley frowned. "So the numbers is the food's name. It is not a quantity."

"I wish it was." Colin tucked his hands into his pockets. "I'd love to buy fifteen sandwiches and fries for five bucks."

Ripley took a stance in front of the counter. The tired teenager tending the register in a Wonder Woman costume gave her and Colin a dead-eyed look. Colin could not blame her. They had been talking in front of it for three minutes. But there wasn't anyone else around. He didn't want to rush Ripley into choosing something. Colin was glad the cashier didn't seem to mind, even when Ripley jumped onto the counter to get a better look.

The teenager in the plastic Batman cowl running around the back, however, was giving them an evil eye. Colin ignored him. This was always the least pleasant aspect of coming to Batburger. Darrel, as his name tag stated, was an ass.

 _I didn't spray paint the mustache on your stupid Nightwing poster,_  Colin thought.  _I told you I didn't. I've never stolen anything from here. I saved you guys from being mugged once, and I wasn't even Abuse. Leave me alone._

"I have decided," Ripley said. "I want six of the fives, two of the fifteens, and seven of the threes."

"M'am, please get off the counter," the cashier said. Ripley hopped down.

"I can't buy seven of the threes," Colin said. "I'm hungry too. But I can buy you two of the threes."

"Fine," Ripley said.

"We'll have six number five meals, two number fifteen meals, and two number three meals," Colin said. "And two number fives with Jokerized fries."

Dead-inside Wonder Woman typed the numbers down. Ripley stepped over to antagonize the soda fountain. Colin counted the battered dollar bills in his hands. He hesitated. They still had a little money left. He could buy Ripley a dessert. It didn't seem like her experience on Earth was positive so far. Whether he trusted her or not, she deserved mercy.

"Kid, I don't know if this is a game to you or what," Darrel said, leaning over the counter, "but hurry up and finish your order. Some of us have stuff to do besides shoplift and loiter."

Before Colin could reply, Ripley tore around the corner in two strides. Purple fire glowed through the vents in her hat. Ripley stepped between Colin and the employee with all the wrath of a tornado. She smacked her hands onto the counter hard enough to crack the finish. Darrel shrieked, barely pulling his hands out of the way in time.

"He is  _ordering,_ " Ripley snarled.

"Okay, okay, okay! Jesus!"

Darrel fled back into the kitchen, his fake cape trailing after him. Colin didn't know if he wanted to die of shame or admiration.  _This is so badass,_  he thought.  _But it's so awful. So much for keeping our cover._  Ripley stayed where she was, glaring at Darrel as he retreated. If someone could turn a death laser into a glare, this was it. Dead-inside Wonder Woman clutched her hands close to her chest.

Colin leaned around Ripley and reached out a handful of bloodstained bills.

"Also," he said, "we'll have one Kid's Meal."

* * *

 

They claimed a booth for their feast. Colin was not the neatest eater. He wasn't the neatest anything. But Ripley put him to shame. Colin ate his burgers at a glacial pace as Ripley savaged her sandwiches. The pyramid of food on her left was rapidly shrinking in comparison to the mountain of wrappers and fry holders on her right.

Colin believed this was how starving wolves ate. He pulled his fries closer to him.  _Better safe than sorry._  Ripley demolished another Robin Burger. Onion and lettuce bits flew. Colin took the time to appreciate that the first time he saw a Tamaranean in person, they had Ivy's Special Sauce all over their face.

"Are you feeling better?" Colin spoke after a fourth of the pyramid was left.

Ripley wiped her mouth on her arm.

"Yes," she said. "Thank you. Co-lin Wil-kes."

"You're welcome," Colin said. "Just call me Colin."

Ripley shifted. She looked ready to reach across the table before she didn't.

"My name is Mar'i," she said.

Surprise stung Colin.  _Oh._  He finished his drink to hide his smile. He didn't know where it had come from. Mar'i stuffed another few fries in her mouth. She did not chug them straight from the holder like she had the first time.

"What brought you to Earth?" Colin said.

"Escaping prison," Mar'i said. She tapped her cup lid. "I do not want to talk about it."

"Cool," Colin said.

"I am not cold."

"That's just an Earth phrase. You say it if something is neat. Speaking of neat stuff, hold on a second." Colin slid the kid's meal towards her. "This is for you."

Mar'i ripped the box open without undoing the tabs. She fished out the mini fries and burger with interest. "This is tiny food," she said. "Is it for your infants?"

"Kind of." Colin didn't have the heart to inform her they were both freaks that ate a lot. "But the toy is neat."

Mar'i withdrew a Robin action figure as he spoke. Her fingers tightened around it. The creak of plastic under pressure sent a shudder down Colin's spine.  _Something is wrong,_  he thought. He braced himself a fight. Mar'i fixated on the figurine.

"Who is this?" Mar'i said.

"Robin," Colin said. "He's part of Batman's family. They do a lot of crime fighting around here. Well, not here, 'cause it's Crime Alley, but in Gotham. They're famous."

"Do you like him?"

"No."

Tension in Mar'i's shoulders drained away. The rising temperature dropped. Colin sat on the edge of his seat as Mar'i turned the action figure towards him. She pointed at the bat insignia on Robin's chest.

"What does this mean?"

"It's the bat signal," Colin said. "It means he works with Batman."

"So everyone who wears it works with Bat-man," Mar'i said. "Or Robin."

"Yeah. That's how it works. Don't worry," Colin said. "They're not evil. They're heroes."

He found himself drinking again to conceal the bitterness in his voice. Mar'i did not look convinced. She set Robin down amidst the table's chaos. An imprint of her grip dented his cloak.

"You had a picture of a man with this symbol in your home," Mar'i said. "The first human I met had it too. We fought. He called me a demon."

Colin stiffened when he realized what conflict Mar'i was pulling him into. The first statement made him laugh. Colin relished the last rush of relief he knew he'd feel for a while.

"Oh, what? My Red Hood poster? Don't worry, Mar'i," he said. "It's just a poster. I'm not allied with him, or Batman, or any of his family. 'Specially Robin. It sounds like you had a run-in with him. Don't worry - my first meeting with him wasn't great either. It doesn't mean you're a criminal."

"The boy was short. He spoke Arabic," Mar'i said. "He used a sword."

"Yeah, that sounds like Robin." Bitterness flared in Colin's chest. It turned to protectiveness. Trust Robin to treat Mar'i with humanity? He didn't think so. "Don't worry. I won't tell them about you. Snitches get stitches."

Relief eased Mar'i's postured. She leaned an elbow on the table, toying with Robin's cape. The action figure thunked face-first onto the table. Colin finished his fries. Cars sped down the street, their lights tracing the night with yellow and red. There was yelling in the distance. Batburger's speakers transformed their music into a tinny, syrupy stream of sound. Over the sound system, Ray Charles and a chorus crooned  _I can't stop loving you… I can't stop wanting you_. Colin did not relate or understand.

Two men shook hands outside Batburger before parting, full of laughter. Mar'i watched them. She turned the Robin action figure over in her hands again.

"You need an ally against Robin and his family."

It was not a question.

"Sort of," Colin said. "I don't want to fight them. Not unless they come after me again. Have you ever heard the saying 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend'? This is kinda like that. I don't trust the Bat-family. You don't either. Let's not trust them together."

 _Let's try again._  Colin extended his hand to Mar'i.

Mar'i's eyes gleamed green. "This is new. Enemies of my enemies can still hurt me. If I could not trust people, I did not talk to them, or I killed them."

"Earth is new." Colin held his breath. "Don't kill anyone? Please?"

Mar'i considered his outstretched hand.

"You mentioned 'friend' in the first saying," she said, slowly. "Are you saying you are my... friend, Colin Wilkes?"

Colin blinked. Mar'i looked at him with caution from behind her tower of burger wrappers. His throat closed up. Was making friends supposed to be this easy? Had he just been bad at it?

"I want to be," Colin said.

Mar'i took his hand. Colin felt a crackling warmth beneath all her callouses - something like fire.

"Then we are friends," Mar'i said.

Colin saw the wary look in her eye.  _If you hurt me,_  it said,  _I will kill you. Without hesitation._  He was too overjoyed to have a friend to care. He understood that paranoia. He understood all her hesitation. For once in his life, someone else felt familiar to him.

Colin grinned.

"Yeah," he said, "we're friends."

* * *

They left Batburger close to 1 AM. Mar'i had the Robin toy, the kid's meal, and another few sandwiches crammed into her hoodie pocket. Colin had his drink. They drank in the facets of Crime Alley: the smell of exhaust, the hundreds of neon lights in liquor store windows, the winding old fire escapes, the crumbled gargoyles up high, the graffiti, the groups of people murmuring on street corners, the murals, the rats sneaking around dumpsters, the food stands, the distant laughter of children from an apartment.

Colin walked through the street with pride. This was his city.  _His._  Maybe Batman loved a different Gotham. But this one was the one that mattered to him. Mar'i seemed fascinated with the night life.  _But maybe that's because she's worried someone is stalking us,_  Colin thought.  _That's not a bad thing to worry about._

"Robin is a hero." Mar'i waved her action figure. "You said you are a hero, too. Do all humans have a second form like you? He did not."

"No. Some people do, but most are an exception," Colin said. "Most people prefer it that way. The big guy you saw in the apartment is how people usually see me. He's ugly but he's useful. Right now, I'm trying to be a hero. I call myself Abuse."

"Abuse." Mar'i rolled the word around in her mouth. "It means… to hurt badly. Unjustly."

"Yeah," Colin said.

"It's a stupid name."

"It's not!"

"It is," Mar'i said.

Colin grumbled to himself.  _It's a fine name,_ he thought.  _It's badass. No one calls Red Hood's name stupid._ _Or Batman's. Nothing is wrong with 'Abuse.'_  Mar'i adjusted her glasses. They were awful, but she made them look good. Colin held his frayed flannel closer to himself. He felt a sudden rush of self consciousness.

So what if his name sucked? So what if Abuse was uglier than hell and kept getting uglier? Or if his base was a condemned apartment? Or if he didn't have any allies until today? He didn't have Mar'i's presence, or Red Hood's tools, but he could right wrongs and extract vengeance anyway. He could throw the fists not thrown for him. No one else was going to do it.

No one wanted to see him doing it, either.

Or wanted him.

Colin huffed. He scooped up a gravel and threw it at a dumpster. It bounced off with a clang. Mar'i watched cockroaches scurry away in fear. The closer they drew to Colin's home, the more abandoned buildings and chain-link fences sprung up. Colin stopped sulking to tell Mar'i about Crime Alley.

 _Mar'i was just being honest,_  Colin thought. He and Mar'i crossed the road, gliding over a faded crosswalk. It wasn't Mar'i's fault that bad moods sometimes hit him without warning. It wasn't anyone's.

At least it hadn't been the voices this time.

"So you are from here," Mar'i said. "Crime Alley is in Gotham. Gotham is in North America. North America is on Earth."

"That covers it," Colin said. "What about you? I don't know where Tamaran is."

"I am from the X'Halian forests," Mar'i said. "They are in south Tamaran. Tamaran is in the Vega star system."

"You ate a lot of meat for being from the Vegan star system," Colin said.

"I do not understand."

"It was a joke." Colin leaned back, looking at the rows of telephone wires above. A dirty pair of shoes hung from them. "Vegan means not eating meat and honey and stuff. Lots of rich people do it. You're from the Vega star system. You're a Vegan."

"Oh," Mar'i said.

"Yeah. It wasn't funny even before - "

Mar'i laughed, loud. Colin started. Her laugh was a supernova that eclipsed everything around it. Several people across the street looked over at them.

"I get it," Mar'i said. "I get it. Vega. Vegan. You made a pun."

Colin snickered. "A bad one."

He suddenly felt safer. There was no guarantee Mar'i wouldn't discard him later. But it was harder to betray allies after laughing at a dumb joke with them. Mar'i looked less stressed, too.  _Maybe this will be alright,_  Colin thought. They snuck back into his apartment.

When the clock struck 1:30 AM, Mar'i said "There is something important I must do tonight. Will you help me?"

Colin was all ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A busy time of the year encroaches. Updates will slow.  
> 2\. Some of Colin's backstory / physical elements of his Abuse persona have been changed to better reflect Scarecrow's approach towards villainy. Hold tight, and bask in the alternative universe.  
> 3\. All of the chapter titles are song titles. I'll compile them eventually.


	4. So Fast, So Maybe

The modern world had subjected Suren to many humiliating experiences, but the dentist was easily the worst. Suren was not certain which was more terrible: the plasticine throne, which tipped its victims backwards with a whirr of cogs, the ill-fitting uniforms with obnoxious patterns, or the attempts from the teeth tenders to speak to him while they had their hands in his mouth.

"Where do you go to school?" the teeth tender said, cheery.

"I do not go to school," Suren said.

"That's cute." The teeth tender pulled her fingers out of Suren's cheek, shuffling to a nearby counter. Suren gagged on the taste of latex. "Do you enjoy being homeschooled, honey?"

"My family can eradicate your lineage from existence. I could floss with your entrails."

The teeth tender turned around from the counter. She held a whirring, quivering tool that sounded like a nest of furious hornets and looked like an instrument from Den Darga's torture chamber. Suren knew it was going in his mouth.

"What was that?" she said.

"Nothing," Suren said.

As a result, Suren left the dentist office with a fixed tooth, a useless goody bag, and a new resentment towards teeth tenders. He also hated the space demon that much more. His skull ached. His jaw ached, numbly. His collar ached. Suren rapped his fingers on the car door as head servant Pennyworth drove him back to the manor. Whenever he glanced at his reflection, he saw the red scar that cut through his eyebrow and part of his hairline.

 _Maya would say I look cooler,_  he thought.  _Or that I look more ridiculous. Either one._ Suren dug a smiling tooth sticker out of his bag. He shredded it. Suren watched the pieces drift to the car floor, feeling a hint of satisfaction. Anger stuck in his throat. It congealed with stale fear. Suren avoided looking at Pennyworth. He did not want to wish ill upon him for no reason.

Thankfully, Pennyworth had his sunglasses on, and it prevented he and Suren from making eye contact. Suren crossed his legs, restless. Traffic honked around them. Storefronts glowed with life. The clock read 6 AM. Dawn had broken, casting its dew across Gotham.

It did not erase the humiliation of last night.

Suren Darga, personally trained son of Den Darga himself, warlock-in-training, the heir of a line as ancient as the Al Ghuls, had lost to a space demon. A hurt, panicky space demon. The idea was a superheated ball of metal that sat in Suren's mind, sinking deeper and deeper in as time went by. His father's voice had been silent since he awoke from his unconsciousness. Suren knew it was not due to a lack of opinions. It was because his father's sole feeling was a dim lake of disappointment.

 _I do not care if the space demon is called a Tamaranean,_  Suren thought.  _I do not care what the Wayne-Al Ghuls think of me. I do not care what they are planning. This is my mission now. I will see it through._

Suren Darga was not allowed to fail. The last time he had done so, it had resulted in the end of his world and the doom of his father. It had changed everything. Suren had survived by being in the company of friends - the first ones he had ever made.

He did not want to consider what failure looked like here.

* * *

_Last night:_

Suren staggered through the woods, fighting off his dizziness. His collar clanked with pain whenever he moved his arm. Blood dripped down his forehead. Suren did not need Oracle to tell him his collar bone was broken. He spat tooth splinters out onto the litter and pine needles, coughing. The cough shook his fractured bone. Suren wanted to magic it all away.

But the healing spell wasn't working.

Suren was not a healer. He could use approximately one healing spell, and not on other people. Den Darga had wanted Suren to take care of himself. He had not indulged his son in softer arts otherwise. To feel healing magic crackle through his fingers, Suren needed to pull on strings deep inside himself, close his eyes, and imagine every spider web of the healing rune. Not a single one could be out of place.

Suren's concussion destroyed that focus.

So Suren limped up to the highway, numb with adrenaline, arm trembling. His magic fell between his fingers as if it were sand.  _I don't understand why it's not working,_  Suren kept thinking.  _I don't understand why it's not working._  His thoughts fractured.

Suren hitchhiked into Gotham after four failed attempts to get a ride. From a truck cab seat, he watched the city slide by in nauseating spirals of taillights, stoplights, safety tape, and bustling storefronts. Then it all turned to reflective glass, advertisements, pirouetting gargoyle fountains, and upper class laughter. Suren choked down his vomit. This was worse than one of those obscene country fairs. He wiped tears from his face when they passed the Lebanese bakery - still closed - and a speed bump smacked his shoulder against the truck door.

The modern world was big and shimmery and it didn't speak his language and Suren missed bowls of dates and dry mountain palaces and أَذَان in the morning and Damian's suggestions weren't enough and he wanted to go home. Even though it and his father were gone.

 _I hate everything,_  Suren thought.

After he made it back to Wayne Manor, everything was a haze. Batgirl and Black Bat brought him in, their anger dissipating into concern and questions. He handed over his phone and unused sample kit. They assessed his injuries. They gave him medicine. Ice, for his cheek. Batgirl made him lay down. Suren fell asleep on a Batcave cot. He drifted in and out of conscious. Batgirl's and Oracle's voices were low. At one point, Suren heard Damian's father.

At 3 AM, Suren awoke in a sweat, swimming in painkillers. Black Bat was nearby. So was Damian's father. Together, Suren decided, their silhouettes resembled a scorpion and a brick standing side by side. They did not see Suren. They were looking at the Batcave's big screen. The photographs the demon had accidentally taken with Suren's phone were on full display.

Suren focused on the demon's face until he saw double. Magic sparked at his fingertips. His collarbone wove back together, prickling beneath his skin. Suren tasted his cracked tooth as the fog lifted from his brain. The ice pack beneath his cheek wilted. He threw the stupid hat the Waynes had given him onto the floor. As Black Bat turned around, Suren hopped off his bed.

 _You're never humiliating me again,_  he thought, glaring at the demon's image.

( _Selfie,_  a memory of Maya said in the back of his head.  _It's a selfie_ ).

"Suren?" Batman said.

"I am going to finish this," Suren said. "The Tamaranean is mine."

"Sit down," Batman said. "Healing spell or not, you're injured. You need to take this one step at a time. We need to gather more information on what happened."

"I know enough," Suren said.

"No killing," Black Bat said.

"Yes killing," Suren said. "Now is the time for it."

"No!"

"Yes!"

Suren did not finish his argument with Damian's best sister because his tooth cracked again. His vision blurred. "! تَبًّــــــــــا" he said.

Instead of plotting his vengeance in his room at 4 AM, Suren ended up plotting it at the dentist.

* * *

"In essence," Oracle said, "there were two comets. The main one, the Tamaranean space pod, crashed in Gotham. The second one landed in New Mexico. The Justice League believes it slipped through their radar at first due to its much smaller size."

"Small objects can be dangerous," Suren said. "They did a bad job."

"They have an infinity of other issues to be worried about," Batman said. "The tower cannot look everywhere." Batman stepped closer to the blue diagrams on the screen as Oracle pulled them up. He was a black and blue mountain. "Given the second comet's size, it's likely a piece of the broken pod."

"Agreed," Oracle said. "Maybe part of the outer shell. Or landing gear."

"But the League did allow a security breach," Red Robin said. "Suren has a point. We need to speak to them."

Suren mentally moved Red Robin up from 'Damian's least favorite sibling' to 'Suren's second-favorite Wayne.' Red Robin looked too pallid to be called a Wayne-Al Ghul.

At 7 AM, the Batcave was almost full. Batman, Oracle, Red Robin, Suren, and Black Bat all clustered around its hub of chairs, teal screens, and keyboards. Stalactites hung above them. Next to the communication hub, and over a ridge, stalactites bloomed out of a dark underground lake. The Batstrike floated next to a dock nearby. Everywhere Suren looked, there was another pit of cave darkness or a platform stuffed with vehicles and oddities. It was impossible to tell it was dawn outside.

 _There are not enough torches and chained-up skeletons of fallen enemies,_ Suren thought.  _This place is too full of screens and wire. The display cases are fine._

"I'll handle that," Oracle said. "Tim, you need to contact Blue Beetle. After that, get a hold of Nightwing. See if Starfire has told him anything. If our other source is open… use him. We need to find out why a young Tamarean would take refuge on Earth."

"On it," Red Robin said.

He swept off to another platform in the cave, his cape flowing behind him. Suren tried not to scowl in impatience. Oracle, Black Bat, and Batman remained present. Batgirl had been filled in before she left to work.

"So what is happening now?" Suren said. "Where is the Tamaranean?"

Cave rock pressed cold shapes into the back of his calf. Suren adjusted his position again. He was sitting on the ledge in front of the underground lake only because Oracle had asked him not to. Black Bat ruined his rebellion by perching next to him. She made balance seem effortless. Suren endeavored not to look at her, mostly due to the cat she held. Damian's feline Alfred kept glaring at him. It was annoying.

"We don't know that yet," Oracle said. "But we can make a guess. Around 2 AM, the situation grew more complicated."

With a few flicks of her fingers, Oracle pulled up grainy footage. Suren recognized the highway outside of Gotham. Police sirens cast their red and blue lights on the pavement. Some weeds waved from behind a guard rail. None of the cars were on screen. Suren guessed they were below, where the woods began.

"Shortly after Suren fought the young Tamaranean," Oracle said, "Gotham PD arrived on the scene. They set up a parameter around the crater. They also saw signs of the pod leaving the crater, dragging debris as it went. Several officers went looking for the ship. Around 1:30 AM, they found it. Bruce and I were tied up in Justice League communications and safety patrols when they called. They told us they had set up a guarded parameter around the ship. Steph went to investigate."

Headlight beams split the grainy footage. A rusted minivan with a papered-over license plate rumbled out of the woods, emerging from the bottom of the screen. Suren did not need knowledge of vehicles to tell the minivan was in awful shape. A huge lump rested in the back, covered by a tarp. It tilted the minivan as it rolled around. It was impossible to see the driver. As Suren watched, the minivan spun its wheels, throwing dirt as it climbed onto the highway.

Batgirl sprinted into view with her flax hair flying as the minivan's wheels found purchase on the asphalt. She hurled a batarang at the back window. It bounced off, leaving a web of cracks behind it. Undeterred, Batgirl leapt towards the van, aiming to grab onto the back; at the same time, the van wheezed exhaust, throwing itself into reverse. Batgirl rolled over the van's top. Suren bet she was cursing. Batgirl flipped off the van, sticking her landing.

The minivan sped out of the frame in reverse. Skid marks smoked in its wake. Batgirl stood in the middle of the road, watching it. In the grainy video she resembled a specter. Oracle stopped the footage.

"Right before Steph arrived, someone attacked the officers guarding the pod," Oracle said. "All of them are currently in the hospital. They described it as an 'abomination' - " She grimaced. " - that was four times the size of a human being, if not larger. Bruce, its description is relevant to your interest. I'll send you the files. But, in short, the creature did not speak to them. It incapacitated them all, grabbed the pod, and left."

Oracle flicked to an image of misshapen human footprints in the grass. Batman exhaled.

"Was that another monster?" Suren said.

"No," Batman said. "But the pod thief was a metahuman."

"Other footage shows two people in the vehicle," Oracle said. "None of them are clear enough to determine if the Tamarean is a passenger. But we can assume she is. If so, her new friend has already given her clothes to disguise herself with."

"Sticker," Black Bat said, making Suren jump.

Oracle gave her a tired smile full of warmth. "Very astute, Cass."

Oracle rewound the footage. Suren squinted at the patches of color on the minivan bumper. Alfred the cat spilled from Black Bat's arms, landing on the floor and trotting away. Batman was rigid.

"I do not understand," Suren said. "What is the significance of 'I heart Parr Row'?"

"Park Row," Oracle said. "It means this is a van from Crime Alley. The culprit is likely hiding there."

Batman and Oracle looked at each other as though there was a bubble between them, and the slightest misstep would shatter it forever.

"What is your point?" Suren crossed his arms, pulling a foot up so Alfred the cat could not touch it.

Oracle sighed. "It means that you and Black Bat may be investigating Crime Alley. But Bruce and I need to speak for a minute. In private."

Suren was tired of all the speaking. When he had ruled his father's army, he lorded over most declarations and discussions. He had never waited on the whims of others. But this was a new world.

"About what?" Suren said, daring to prod Oracle.

"Red Hood," Batman said.

Suren sensed Batman and Oracle's exhaustion. It reminded him of the heaviness in the room whenever he had eavesdropped on Father and Father's generals. When he had not been certain if Father was proud or ashamed of him.

 _That was Father's version of the scimitar,_ Suren thought,  _that hung over the peasant's head by a thread when he sat in the throne for a night. It made sure I never enjoyed myself fully. It taught me what it meant to be a prince. To be a Darga._

Oracle and Batman appeared less tense than Den Darga and his generals. Whoever or whatever they wanted to speak of was not present. The scimitar hung over them. They were sad and uncertain. They were missing someone. Suren tasted phantom fig juice and understood. Begrudgingly. For a moment, he felt bad for Oracle.

 _Assert yourself,_  Den Darga's voice whispered.  _Do not let the cripple command you._

"We are going," Suren said.

"Alfred, come," Black Bat said.

Suren and Black Bat left the communication hub. The cat followed til it became bored. Then it attacked Suren's ankle.

* * *

The first action Suren took after prying Alfred off his leg was to sprint up a floor and make a phone call. Oracle had gotten his cellphone to function again after its destruction, even if the screen remained broken. Suren forced himself to press the pane of broken glass to his face.  _Time to see if Maya gave me the correct number,_  he thought.

After four rings, the receiver picked up.

"Hello?"

The sleepy voice on the other end sounded ready to collapse. Suren glanced at the clock. It was 7:30 AM. It was not early. He prayed it was not a mistake to call someone he had only met twice before.

"Jon, this is Suren. Damian and Maya's friend."

"Oh!" Jon's voice brightened. "I remember you! We kicked butt against Poison Ivy. That was great, by the way. How's it going, Suren?"

"Well enough." Suren found himself staring at a potted plant. The abyss called. What did he say? "How are… you?"

"Sleepy. Just got up." Jon shuffled. "Saturdays are usually for sleeping in, Suren. Is, uh, something happening?"

"Yes," Suren said. "A Tamaranean has invaded Gotham. I will be facing them. I do not know what to expect."

Batman and Oracle had debriefed him, but much had gone unsaid. Suren did not trust them to mention everything. He was at building block one of understanding space demons, and he needed to acquire information they knew by heart.

"So that's what the commotion last night was. Hey! That's my sock! Stop it!"

"What?"

"Sorry. That was Krypto. He's a morning dog." Jon yawned. "Anyway, 'm in Metropolis right now, but I could fly over to help look, if you want."

"I do not need help," Suren said, finally, after considering the idea. He should be able to do this himself. Jon was Maya and Damian's friend anyway, not his. "But I want to know Tamaranean weaknesses. If you can hear it present in Gotham around Park Row, tell me. It may have stolen a car earlier to transport its pod."

"It?"

"Her," Suren said.

"Okay. I got you," Jon said. The drowsiness was leaving his tone. "Give me a minute."

Suren waited. He crouched to observe the pattern on the glazed plant pot. When Alfred the cat traipsed around the corner, Suren stared him down until he left.  _I am not in the mood to fight Damian's cat,_  Suren thought, watching the black and white tail retreat around the corner. The scratches on his leg were not the first ones Alfred had given him for existing. Suren tried breathing light in Jon's presence.

"I can't tell exactly where the Tamaranean is," Jon said. "But I know she's around Park Row. Maybe south of that. I heard grumbling about a car thief, and lots of clanking metal. Does that sound right?"

"It does," Suren said.

Jon rattled off a basic list of Tamaranean weaknesses and affinities. On occasion, Suren heard him talking to his dog, or to an unseen parent. He wondered if Superman could hear everything being said. Suren bet he did. He chewed on his tongue to avoid telling Jon to hurry up. Footsteps climbed the staircase next to him.

"That's about it," Jon said. "Hope that helped. Call me if stuff gets crazy."

"I will," Suren lied.

"Do you want to hang out sometime? We can. I wanted to talk to you more, but I only saw you around Damian and Maya. You could come to Metropolis for a while. The historical museum has lots of swords. If that sounds cool to you."

"I have to go."

Black Bat was around the corner but the words fled Suren's mouth before he could see her.

"Oh," Jon said. "Okay. See you later, Suren. Good luck."

"Yes. See you later, Jon. Thank you. Goodbye."

"Bye."

Suren fumbled to hang up his phone. His face burned. Jon managed to hang up first. Suren shoved his phone into his pocket as Black Bat beckoned to him. They descended back into the Batcave. Suren was relieved when the cave breeze cooled his face.

 _Modern communication,_  he thought,  _is difficult._

* * *

One seal of approval from Red Hood later, and Suren and Black Bat were in the Crime Alley area. Suren kept his hand on his sword as they slipped through the crowded street. He was grateful for his jacket and sherwal, even though the sun was out.

The Park Row offshoot bustled. Small children played around a broken fire hydrant, shrieking. Litter floated down the flooded gutter as they laughed. A loud family swarmed a Greek food stand nearby. Countless other food stands propped themselves up along the streets, all held together by spit and prayers. Suren made a mental note to visit them when he wasn't on a mission.

"I do not understand," Suren said, stalking past a gaggle of teenagers. He coughed when smoke from their cheap cigarettes blew into his face. "Why was Red Hood so adamant about not letting Batman come here? There is nothing more he could damage."

"Complicated," Black Bat said. Without her cowl, her black hair shimmered in the sun. She waved at the children that went by. They pointed at the golden embroidered shurikens on her tank top. She looked tempted to join the crowd in the fire hydrant spray.

"It always seems to be," Suren said.

Black Bat pointed down a street. "I hear cars. Lots of stealing there. Let's go that way."

After squeezing around an elote stand and a dumpster, they cut through an alley to another street. The historical landmarks were fading. Cement and beaten road signs crept onto the scene among the old buildings. Pigeons nested on top of bird spikes, sleepy. The entire block was a patchwork of businesses, pawn shops, and loan forgiveness outlets. A broken bike lock with no bike hung from a bench outside the library.

Suren checked his phone. They were south of Park Row, but not as far as Jon had recommended.

"We should head down one more block," he said.

"Lead the way," Black Bat said.

The next alley was thinner. Spirals of graffiti on its walls veered from friendly to threatening in a mobius loop of art. Rats foraged in a tipped over trash can. Flies buzzed. A battered telephone pole bolstered thousands of rotting staples and rain-stained MISSING posters of children and pets alike. A red bat symbol half the size of Suren was stenciled onto one wall. BETTER RED THAN DEAD, the spray paint scrawl beneath it read. The chalk outline of a man faded on the ground below.

Black Bat sighed.

Suren jumped from a dumpster onto the nearby fire escape to navigate past the trash piles he was too short to wade through. Black Bat landed behind him without a sound or shiver of the walkway.

"You are eerie," Suren said, looking over his shoulder.

"I do my best," Black Bat said.

They were about to descend and move onto the next street when they heard arguing in the adjacent apartment window.

"Listen. I don't have the money early. You can't take my rent from me. Please…"

"You're gonna give it over whether you like it or not."

Furniture crashed over. Black Bat was already on her feet, finding the apartment. Suren cracked his knuckles.

"It seems our interference is needed," he said.

"No killing," Black Bat warned.

Suren drew his sword, gently testing the edge on his palm. "Do I look like an indiscriminate murderer of criminals?"

"Yes," Black Bat said. She tapped Suren's forehead. "Even though you are not an illiterate murder."

At least Black Bat endeavored to be honest, questionable vocabulary aside. Another piece of furniture crashed over. Black Bat had a foot on the fire escape railing, crouched like a panther, but she kept staring at Suren. He rolled his eyes and sheathed his sword.

"I will not use my sword to kill anyone," Suren said. "Or my dagger. Let's go."

Black Bat grinned before pulling up her mask.

"Let's," she said.

They leapt through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The parable Suren references is The Sword of Damocles.


	5. Los Ageless

Suren decided that even if everything else in his life changed, there was one hobby he would always enjoy: threatening the unworthy.

"If you bother this woman or another ever again," Suren said, looking the mafia thug in the eye, a turkey carver in hand, "I will look for you, I will find you, and I will carve you. You will be reduced to nothing but bloody, well-partitioned peels of flesh on one of your own platters. I will feed you to your associates. Raw."

"I get the point," the thug muttered. "I ain't touching anyone again. Put down the damn turkey carver. Please."

Suren revved the turkey carver close to his ear. Just to witness the thug's expression. He was rewarded: the gigantic tattooed thug cringed.

"Stop it," Black Bat said, full of disapproval.

Suren pulled away. The bruised thug, who was sitting on his knees with his hands bound behind his back, exhaled. His jaw was swollen. Suren took satisfaction in seeing someone else suffering a sore face. Black Bat and the older woman hiding behind her were less satisfied. Suren sighed.

"What?" he said, looking to Black Bat. "I did not use my sword or dagger. I did not threaten to kill him. I kept my word."

"The turkey saw is bad too," Black Bat said. "Put it back."

Suren pushed his thumb against the switch and listened to the carver whir again, softly. The white extension cord behind it quivered. The thug began sweating anew.

"The power of outlets is new to me," Suren said. "Am I supposed to not use it after harnessing it?"

"Yes. Put it back."

 _It looks like one of those dentist tools,_  Suren thought, unplugging the carver and setting it on the counter.  _I am certain the teeth tenders are evil._

"I will be back," Black Bat said, grabbing the thief and binding his hands. "Suren, help." She tilted her head at the messy apartment.

"You did not need to tell me," Suren said.

"Thank you," the woman said, clutching her kitchen counter for steadying. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Black Bat said.

As Black Bat wrestled the thief out of the apartment, Suren helped the woman - named Fariha - to clean up her home. Fariha was short and stout, with crow's feet rimming her eyes. A length of black braided hair came down to her waist. She reminded Suren of the chattery aunties that had filled the Darga halls on holidays. Fariha was a mortal with familiarity.

If Fariha was jovial, however, it had been shaken out of her for the day. She trembled slightly as she righted furniture. A stray hair caught in her bindi. Suren quickly swept up some spilled cat kibble so her sari did not drag in it. He wanted to tell Fariha to calm down, but he elected against it.

"Poor cat," Fariha said, taking the kibble-filled bowl from Suren. "The commotion scared him. He won't be showing his face for a long time. I'll probably be at work when he does."

"Cats are terrible, so he will be back," Suren said.

"That's the truth."

Fariha gave a shrill laugh when she picked up a bottle of plum juice. It had leaked on a rug the thug had thrown at Black Bat earlier. Fariha knelt. She gathered the rug into her arms like a child.

When Suren realized what the rug was, horror engulfed him. He winced to see the juice all over a beautiful Tabriz rug. The intricately woven face of Arash the Archer was now submerged beneath a cloud of purple.

"My husband will be furious," Fariha said. "This was his great-grandfather's."

"He will not hurt you," Suren said, kneeling beside her, "will he?"

"No." Fariha wiped her face. "He'll shout, but not at me. I wouldn't blame him if he did shout at me. That rug was one of the few things that came from Iran with him. We have so little of those things left, now."

"I understand." Suren felt small when he reached out, taking her hand. "I am so sorry."

Fariha squeezed his hand back. "You don't need to be," she said. "You saved my life. I'm grateful for that. My husband will be, too. Thank you."

Suren's heart was heavy. Arash's stained face stared at him. His bow remained drawn, as it would for all time. The famed arrow Arash had shot crossed the rug in comet of gold. A speck of plum blotched its tail.

 _I should have hit that man harder,_  Suren thought, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to chase Black Bat and the thug down.  _I should have broken all of his teeth. I should have destroyed him._   _It does not matter that mortals will crumble to ash before the Dargas. I should have hurt him more. Fariha needs vengeance for what he took from her._

No. Vengeance didn't seem like the correct word. Vengeance meant blood for repayment. Suren did not think he wanted that for Fariha. She did not seem to want that either. But that did not erase his want to repay her for the crimes of another. To make sure everything resolved.

 _This concept has a name,_  Suren thought. But it eluded him in English. He was not sure he had known it in Arabic, either. If he had, he had known a far crueler version of it. Suren struggled to name what he wished to deliver. As Fariha got up to tend to her carpet, Suren dug into his pocket, fumbling with his phone.

"والله, no one will ever bother you or your husband again," Suren said. "I promise." He showed her his broken screen. "If you call this number later, one of my family friends will pay for your rug to be cleaned. They will do the best work that can be done."

"Oh, god. You didn't have to offer that. Thank you." Fariha pulled away from blotting up the plum juice with dry towel. She left the rug on the counter. "What did you say your name was?"

"Suren Darga," Suren said.

 _Be proud,_  Father's voice murmured,  _my lungs._

Fariha hugged him. Suren vanished into her red, black, and gold layers of sari. It felt like sinking into the sea. She smelled like incense. Suren's face pressed to her blue undershirt. He returned the hug. He didn't know what to say.

"My husband runs his mouth about many things, but he was right about this," Fariha said. "Middle Eastern boys pull the sun into the sky."

It was hard to breathe but in a good way and Suren was glad that Black Bat had chosen to wait outside the apartment instead of barging in like she could have. When Fariha released him, Suren felt more important and powerful than the entirety of Gotham.

"You should come to dinner," Fariha said. "I have no doubt my husband will want to speak with you. I'll pitch in a good word for you - I won't even mention the turkey carver."

"I will." Suren glanced towards the door as Black Bat nudged it open. "But right now, I have to go. We will talk later, Fariha."

The thug was gone. Suren suspected the police had him.  _He's lucky,_  Suren thought. He waved to Fariha as they left. The cluttered alley closed around them. Suren refocused on his goal.

"What are you smiling about?" he said.

Black Bat shook her head, still smiling. "Not smiling," she said. For someone who had been a terrifying blur of action earlier, she looked innocuous now.

"You are a bad liar," Suren said.

Black Bat puffed her chest. She mimed prodding something, then made a buzzing noise. Suren realized she was imitating him with the turkey carver.

"Taken," Black Bat said. "I will look for you! I will find you!"

"Movies are one of the best things mortals have ever produced," Suren said. "I will quote them whenever I want."

"Not making fun of you, Suren," Black Bat said.

"You're smiling yet."

"No." Black Bat pointed to her mask.

"Yes," Suren said. "I can tell even with the mask on. You are not always sneaky."

"No."

Refocusing on the goal was not going well.

"Yes!"

"No." Black Bat's cheeks crinkled.

"I can see you doing it!"

Black Bat waved him off, her cheeks still crinkled. Suren resisted the urge to shred her mask with his claws.  _She and Damian are clearly siblings,_  he thought.  _They are both pains._ Suren and Black Bat abandoned the apartment's alley for the street they had been seeking. Sun kissed Suren's face. Black Bat stretched in the beams, pleased.

 _Maybe she was an only child before, too,_  Suren thought.  _Like Damian._

As an only child, Suren found the Wayne-Al Ghul family complicated. It was a sprawling mess of people and broken alliances. Father's voice called it a mess. After meeting Damian's family - Talia included - Suren had to agree. But perhaps it wasn't a mess in the way Father believed it to be. In the end, Black Bat was part of the family. She was a Wayne-Al Ghul. She was skilled. She had done her time in the League of Assassins. Damian had told Suren so. That was all Suren needed to know.

Besides - Black Bat flustered him like no one else, which clearly matched the way Damian and Maya annoyed him like no one else.

The next street Suren and Black Bat emerged onto held the same mood as the alleyway. Ageing apartment complexes, one after another, lined the street. Some were two floors. Some were eight. Suren saw no pattern in their arrangement. Tiny alleys squeezed their way between the buildings.  _If I stood on one of those fire escapes,_ Suren thought,  _I could touch the window across from me. Mortals truly make things more difficult for themselves._  Black Bat pulled her mask down.

"Should we go over another?" Suren said.

"No. We look here," Black Bat said.

"All right."

Aside from several people walking down the sidewalk, and the hum of music and broken washing machines that spilled from the apartment windows, this section of Crime Alley was more quiet. Suren surveyed the never-ending line of cars parked on both sides of the road. From the crest of the hill, they were parallel threads of cheap glass beads, stretching on until the horizon.

"So we are looking for... a minivan with a sticker." Suren squinted at the image on his phone. "Nothing about this vehicle appears small. That name is stupid."

"It doesn't make sense," Black Bat agreed.

"Why are we here? Jon said the car was around this area, but why not a road over?"

Suren kicked at a dead weed growing from a crack in the concrete. Dips and hills wrinkled the sidewalk. All of the streetlights were choked in dust and stickers. Several of the parking meters - a concept Suren had not understood until head servant Pennyworth said "Think of them as modern tying posts, Master Darga" - were dented.

Black Bat pointed to a tower in the distance. It was grey and unwelcoming.  _It looks like an upended whale skeleton,_  Suren decided. The tower possessed the minimum for being a building. Each floor held a series of giant rectangular windows without glass. A red sign ran from the third floor to the second floor like a banner. PARKING, it said.

"The car house," Black Bat said.

"Right." Suren felt foolish. "Let us break into the car house, then."

* * *

The car house held lots of vehicles, but so did the street leading up to it. Suren underestimated how far away it was. He and Black Bat spent twenty minutes scrutinizing the cars at parking meters and in small parking lots. All of the vehicles and their metal shells looked alike to Suren. Nor did he understand most of the stickers pasted on their bumpers. Suren wanted to hold a few of the vehicle owners at sword-point until they explained themselves. Why were so many individuals proud of their honor students? If being an honor student was difficult, there should not have been that many of them.

All-in-all, sweeping the street with Black Bat felt removed from finding or fighting the space demon. Suren grew restless thinking about it. He tried stemming his restlessness by paying a beggar with a guitar a dollar to sing while they worked.  _My son is a patron of the arts,_  Den Darga's voice said, sardonic.

 _Be quiet, Father,_  Suren thought.  _I am trying to focus. Since I cannot flay mortals to vent, I am listening to this beggar butcher flay a song._

Which was fine. Until the beggar winked at Black Bat, and then it was not fine.

"Do not," Suren said.

"S'not meant with disrespect," the beggar said. "Your sister is a handsome young woman."

"She is not my sister," Suren said, bristling. "If you disobey me again I will - "

"Time to go," Black Bat said, grabbing Suren's shoulders and steering him away. He flushed, shaking Black Bat off. He wasn't a  _child._  "Thank you!"

The beggar waved as they left. Black Bat waved back. Suren ceased stalking down the street when he noticed a familiar vehicle parked next to a laundromat. He darted across the road before Black Bat could point at it. The car he had cut off honked. Black Bat ran after him, flying over the car's hood with ease. Suren didn't hear the driver's surprised exclamation.

"This is it," Suren said. He found his heart beating faster. The minivan had the same dull paint as the camera footage. When Suren pressed his face to a window, he saw the van's decimated interior. The cloth on the back seats was shredded, a back window was cracked, and the minivan's roof was bent upwards where the pod had forced it up.

Black Bat made a sound of approval. "Samples," she said, passing Suren the kit. He took it. The back of his neck prickled with excitement. The car house's PARKING sign, now only three blocks away, hung in the sky as a red omen. A vent above the minivan spat a cool breeze into the alley. A hint of starch and lavender clung to the air. Black Bat perked up when a bell jingled nearby.

"Suren," she said.

At the same moment, Suren grabbed a door handle, knowing it was locked. But that could be fixed. "Now all we must do," Suren said, "is open it."

"Stealing cars is kind of illegal. Just saying."

Suren and Black Bat turned. The laundromat door was open. A redheaded boy leaned out of it, one hand gripping the door. Scrapes covered his knuckles. Bandages dotted his to Suren's surprise, the stranger gave Red Robin a run for his money when it came to paleness.  _They must die in the sun,_  Suren thought.

"We are not stealing," Suren said. "We are investigating."

"Sure. Everyone is just investigating." The stranger glanced at them and the vehicle. "It's pretty gutsy to do this in daylight, though. I'll give you that. Even just breaking in gets you arrested."

The stranger's hair was messy. He wore a frayed shirt with an auto shop logo on it. A bag of laundry sat behind him. Green flyers advertising a church in English, Spanish, and Mandarin covered the laundromat's glass door, and part of the stranger's body, but he seemed content to hide behind the flyers. And to judge them.

"Who are you?" Suren said. Black Bat was oddly still.

"Laundromat customer." The stranger glanced at his belt. "Is that a sword?"

"Yes," Suren said. "What's your name?"

"Jason," the stranger said. He glanced up the street.

Black Bat typed a message out on her phone. She slipped it behind her back. Then she stepped around Suren, full of warmth and welcome.

"Hello, Jason," she said.

"Hey," Jason said. "What's your name?"

"Cass."

"Nice meeting you, Cass. And you?" the stranger said, looking to Suren.

"Suren," Suren said.

"That's a nice name," the stranger said. Suren could not place the tone underlying his voice. "Nice to meet you too, Suren."

Black Bat glided closer, navigating between Suren and the stranger. Suren's phone pinged. He checked it. A message from Black Bat shone on his screen: 'He is lying.'

"Look," supposedly-Jason said, one hand on his laundry bag, "I hate snitching as much as the next person, but I really can't let you jack a car in front of the laundromat. It'll ruin business for them."

"Not stealing." Black Bat wrinkled her nose. "We are not… jacking the car."

While Black Bat and Jason argued, Suren backed towards the minivan again. He glanced through the back window. Among the trunk's torn lining, Suren glimpsed flecks of sharp metal.

"Hands are dirty," Black Bat was saying. "Oil."

"I was helping my mom change it out. It's hard to clean off. I'm out of soap." Jason wiped his hands on his shirt. His fingers dug into the hem, hiding their oily spots.

Black Bat pointed at the laundromat sign.

"Yeah," Jason said. "But I'm busy. Gotta finish throwing clothes in the washer first. Mom is impatient."

Suren stepped away from the minivan. The stranger slid back a half step. Suren's suspicions doubled.  _He knows something._  Suren's hand slipped to his scimitar hilt. It would be so easy to intimidate it out of him. But he felt Black Bat shift in disapproval behind him, so Suren gritted his teeth and pried his hand from his weapon.

"If you know who drove this vehicle here," Suren said, "tell us. Did you see the comet last night?"

Jason shrugged. "I have no idea. I didn't see the comet, either."

"Liar," Black Bat said.

The wall of washers inside the laundromat hummed and clunked. All of them could hear it, even from outside. The hum washed over the silence. Jason looked from Suren to Black Bat then back again. Paranoia brightened his eyes. Suren saw his jaw clench. Jason was wary of Black Bat. He was wary of both of them.

But Jason - though he was not really named Jason - did not look afraid.

"Has anyone ever told you," the stranger said, "that you sound like Robin? What with the sword and intimidation and all that stuff."

That was not a threat but it carried the weight of one.

"Yes," Suren said. "I have been told I look like him, too. Which is also not original."

"I wasn't trying to be a smart-ass."

The stranger glanced up the street again. Black Bat edged closer. The excitement she had been restraining made her fidgety. Suren saw sweat on the stranger's wrist. Then, as fluidly as water rolling across a plate, his skin moved. It crawled.

The stranger jammed his hand in his pocket. Alarms rang in Suren's head. If there was magic involved, they needed to know. Right now. But Suren sensed nothing.

"Tell the truth," Black Bat urged.

The stranger sighed. "Okay, you got me."

With a soft clatter, he threw a pair of keys. Black Bat caught them. She looked at the small, fuzzy die on the key chain with confusion. Suren did not see the stranger's skin move again. Confusion bit him, too.  _What is he?_

"I did steal the car," the stranger said. "Sometimes you need a ride. But I'm usually good at giving them back."

Shouting rang out from down the street.

"My car! That's my car!"

Black Bat and Suren wheeled around. A plump black woman was jogging frantically up the street, her purse bouncing in all directions, as she waved at them and yelled. She was a block away and gaining. Black Bat could not conceal the fuzzy die hanging from her hand.

"You traitor!"

Suren struck out at the stranger, but his fist hit glass. The laundromat door closed and locked with a click. The stranger slung his bag over his shoulder. He shot Suren a smile through the foggy window.

"Have fun!" the stranger said.

He bolted to the back of the room, disappearing into a maze of laundry machines, newspaper piles, and chairs. Suren cursed. The woman descended upon Black Bat. The customers in the laundromat stared as Suren rattled the door. The bell flopped, clunking against the glass. One old woman in front of the door covered her mouth.

"I'm blasting it open," Suren said, stepping back with fire on his hands.

"Don't!" Black Bat grabbed his wrist.

"You do not command me! I am finding the Tamaranean!"

Suren's fire flared. Black Bat flipped him with a single whip of her body. Suren landed in the gutter on all fours, cursing. His flames fizzled in the rain water.

"My car is ruined!" the woman wailed. She was clutching her keys now, with both hands pressed to her head in despair. "Oh, god. I don't have insurance. Did you two do this?"

Suddenly, Black Bat and Suren had different problems.

"No," Suren said, wishing the woman would trip into the street and break her neck. He hoped she would drown in the gutter and float away until she got stuck in a street drain. He hoped the same thing happened to Black Bat. "I did not touch your hideous car."

"I'm sorry," Black Bat said, ignoring him.

Suren rose, stiff. Scruffs bloodied his palms. Black Bat was not looking at him. Suren wanted to boil the air until she did. How could Black Bat feel his spike of animosity and not respond?  _Say something! Say something! Say something!_

The woman unlocked her car. "Okay," she said, climbing into the driver's seat. "Okay. This is a bad dream. That's all."

"It was not," Suren said. "But I hope your delusion pleases you."

Black Bat's mouth twisted. Suren was pleased to have a reaction. Finally, someone was going to react like a Darga. He would understand this. All the bizarre warm feelings and admiration would go away. This would make sense.

"Are you okay?" Black Bat said. She gestured to his hands.

Suren's rage dissipated. Black Bat's words were a kick in the stomach. His mind blanked. He had nothing but beads of blood in his hands. Shame nipped his chest.

"I am fine," Suren said.

"Okay," Black Bat said. Suren heard the 'I don't entirely believe you' in her words. He wiped his hands on his sherwal, shaking his head.  _I will fight with Black Bat about this later,_ he thought. The stranger's mocking face lingered in his mind.

"Wait," the minivan woman said. "Where's my key?" She frantically flicked through her key chain. "I have the fob; where's my key?"

Black Bat opened her hand to show Suren the key. "We need samples."

Suren groaned. "Unfortunately, you're right." He crossed in front of the minivan. The woman started when he rapped on her window. "Open up. We have your key. We wish to talk."

Finally, the minivan woman left her fugue state. She clutched her purse closer with wary suspicion. Tiny crowns wrapped around her braids like rings. They swirled around her face whenever she turned her head, which she did frequently. She moved like a bird.

"Who are you?" she said.

"That's irrelevant," Suren said. "We saved your vehicle. You are welcome."

"Are you stealing my car?"

"No," Suren said.

"Maybe," Black Bat said.

"Black Bat! We are not taking it. We are breaking into your vehicle," Suren said, "but it is for the greater good. We need to see the back of your minivan."

"The back?" The woman glanced into her rear view mirror. She had long, fake pink talons, and they flashed as she clutched her head again. "My upholstery!"

"What upholstery?" Suren frowned. "The flimsy covering? It was not dragon leather. Do not be upset."

"You are not helping," Black Bat said.

"I am being honest," he said.

The minivan woman rubbed her face.

* * *

The woman allowed them to take samples, if for the sole purpose of getting her key back. Black Bat and Suren dropped the pod shards into tubes and packed them away. The metallic scent of space made Suren's throat close. He shook it off. It reminded him of the electricity that magic ran through his skin, and the lightning it placed beneath his tongue, but unfamiliar and unpleasant instead.

Noon illuminated Crime Alley when they left. Park Row's cobbled street swarmed with families out for lunch. A group of girls jumped rope around the broken fire hydrant, which had settled into a soft spray instead of a flood. Suren and Black Bat walked on. Suren's palms stung. He tucked them into his pockets. His anger from before lingered, deep down. But he was pacified.

Black Bat knew the boy's real name. Batman had asked her to look for him. That was all that mattered.  _You can't hide the space demon forever, Colin Wilkes,_  Suren thought. A cloud crossed the sun. Black Bat turned her face upwards to feel the shadow, closing her eyes. She looked like a statue. Suren had never seen anyone look so pleased with themselves. Black Bat's ability to be sweet and dangerous confused him. Suren considered his own confusion from earlier.

 _Do not show your weakness,_ Den Darga's voice said.

 _I won't,_  Suren thought.

"Black Bat," he said.

"Yes?"

"What is the word for vengeance," Suren said, "but - good? At least by mortal standards."

Black Bat kicked a can out of the way. Cobble gravel crunched beneath their boots. "Hm. Avenging?"

"No," Suren said. "But it's close."

Black Bat's face screwed up in concentration. "I do not know," she said, finally. Black Bat opened her eyes. "Ask Oracle. She will know!"

"I will consider it," Suren said, disappointed.

Black Bat hummed to herself, stepping down the street with all the grace in the world. They retreated with the samples. If Black Bat heard the footsteps tracing them along the roof, she said nothing about it.

* * *

Out in space, a ship circled an entrance to the Milky Way. It did not touch the galaxy, not yet, but it watched. Waited. It rested among the blue expanse of stars. Its pilot curled into her seat, watching. She was tired. Full of anticipation. But she could wait a while longer.

 _Tracker located,_  her ship interface said. She gripped the ship controls.

"I'm coming, Mar'i," she whispered. Her green eyes glowed.

The ship veered towards the Milky Way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Whenever Den Darga calls Suren "my lungs, my heart" etc, he's using a fond type of Arabic nickname for him. Suren's mental voice for his father does not speak to him in English.


	6. It Takes Two

Mar'i would not say that stealing vehicles was Colin's special talent, but while Colin was borrowing a minivan to steal her escape pod from the Gotham City Police Department, Mar'i learned lots of new phrases in English. Like 'joyride,' 'pedal to the metal,' 'driver's license,' and 'pick-pocketing.' And 'jacking,' Mar'i's personal favorite, which meant both a mechanic's tool and stealing a ship - or a car.

English was a language with lots of potential.

"Okay," Colin said, gripping the steering wheel, "a minivan is a bad ride to have a car chase in, but I think we got away from the police."

"I do not hear any alarms," Mar'i said.

The remains of her escape pod rolled in the back. It shook the minivan as Colin left the highway and merged onto a smaller road. Mar'i watched the highway's sleek four lanes shrink to a measly two. The plethora of dashed lines and signs vanished. Now there was only road with one line down the middle.

 _Boring,_  Mar'i thought,  _but good for hiding._

As they rounded a curve, the car's engine groaned. Colin's knuckles turned whiter. Mar'i pressed her face close to the window to watch the forest and guardrail outside fly by. It was dark, but so far, all of Earth's trees looked like skinny bristles compared to Tamaran's. Colin exhaled when the minivan stopped making bad noises. His grip loosened. He stretched so his foot could press the accelerator further down. The needle inched up on the little half-circle of numbers in front of him.

Humans were tiny, Mar'i decided. Tiny and fragile. Colin Wilkes of Earth seemed around her age, but he was small next to her. He had the seat scooted up close to the 'dash,' another word Mar'i had learned, and he had to crane his head to see everything. His legs were barely long enough to reach the pedals. The violent human who had attacked Mar'i would not have been able to reach them at all.

 _The adults are also tiny and fragile,_  Mar'i thought. None of them were eight feet tall, or even seven feet tall. Colin had thrown the blue-suited ones out of the way like dolls when they were getting her ship. They had weapons, but there was nothing else special about them. It was becoming clear that not many humans had powers. Just a few.

"We're lucky this was an automatic," Colin muttered to himself. He did that a lot. "Escaping Batgirl in a standard would have sucked."

"Automatic?" Mar'i said.

Her stolen words slid out easier the more English she spoke. Even before she asked, she knew the word meant something about Earth vehicles, but not what.

"It's not important," Colin said. "Some cars are standards and some are automatics. You have to do more stuff with shifting they're standards. That's all."

"Hm." Mar'i eyed the shifter Colin had a hand on.  _Maybe this is important for stealing vehicles._  She filed the information away for later.

Short poles with rectangles of red and silver metal lined the roadside. They glowed in the minivan's headlights as Colin and Mar'i rattled past them. Bent lines of guardrail flew by, too. The road was small and the woods were black. Mar'i fiddled with a button on the car door. Her window went up and down. The wind outside stung her face with cold, so she decided to leave it up. Colin looked less stiff the more they drove.

 _He is worried too,_  Mar'i thought. She didn't know if she liked that. Colin had sworn an oath that he was her friend. Mar'i wanted to believe him. An oath was an oath. But many people had sworn things to her before, and it had not stopped them from breaking their promises. Including Tamaraneans.

One Tamaranean in particular.

Mar'i shook her head. Now was not the time for this. She was hurt and running away from Earth's authorities. Colin Wilkes was helping her. If he wanted to kill her, he could have left her in the alley. He had not. Mar'i needed to try trusting him. If it all fell apart later, they could fight to the death then. Easy.

"What are you thinking about?" Colin said.

"Many things." Mar'i leaned forward in her seat, grabbing a pink disk that hung from the car's rear view mirror. "What is this? It smells like plants."

"Oh." Colin blinked. "That's an air freshener. It's... peach flavored? It's pretty stinky."

Mar'i yanked on the air freshner, breaking its string. She held the air freshener closer. Its smell reminded her of the t'ala jungle fruits on Tamaran, but less sweet.  _I don't think I ever saw a t'ala this color,_  she thought.  _Not unless it was rotting. Ph'yzzon would know if any t'alas were this color._

But Ph'yzzon was not here, and she was not going to eat a t'ala or see him again for a long time. If ever. The realization stung. Mar'i crushed the air freshener in her fist and dropped it on the floor. Mar'i saw a lump bob in Colin's throat.  _I made him nervous._ She gripped the seat with her hands so they could not make fists. Despite what he thought, she was not going to crush Colin's neck that way. Not unless he made her.

"I didn't like that air freshener either," Colin said, his gaze on the road. "Too sweet. It was gross."

For a moment, Mar'i wanted to hug him. He did not need to be kind to her, or brave; he did not need to feed her. As a human, Colin could have ignored her. Mar'i did not hug him. The bandaged cut on her belly told her to stay put until she knew him better. Betrayal came fast. Its injuries lingered a long time.

A big green sign passed by. 'GOTHAM,' it said, '25 MILES.' Mar'i spotted lights in the distance. A stream of cars sped over a faraway road, moving much faster than their minivan was. Her gliisp'i fed a word to her:  _fireflies_. Mar'i thought of Gotham, full of mechanical light and empty of greenery. She couldn't comprehend why anyone was speeding to get back there. Even if it was their home.

"Where are we hiding my pod?" Mar'i said.

"We can hide it in the apartment building," Colin said. "No one but me lives there. No one's gonna find it."

"We must be careful," Mar'i said.

"I know." Colin's thumb twitched with worry.

The apartment building was big. Mar'i had not seen any other humans there before, but now that Colin mentioned it, its emptiness sunk in. Was he alone too?

"Don't spend too much time with me." Mar'i fiddled with the seat belt. She hated it. "Your family will be looking for you."

Colin shrugged. "Don't have one."

Mar'i frowned. "You must live with someone. Even if they dislike you."

"They don't look; don't worry. They'd be happy if I didn't come back." Colin settled into his seat, one hand on the wheel. He looked comfortable. The minivan's vents blew tufts of his red hair back. "What about you?"

Mar'i thought about her cousin. Her father. The graves on Tamaran.

"I have family looking for me," she said.

"That's something."

"Yes." Mar'i tipped her head up, her wounds hurting, to watch a satellite go by in the murky sky. The windshield blurred it. "I hope they do not find me."

Colin said nothing.

* * *

After they hid Mar'i's pod in the apartment's abandoned garage and put the minivan back, and Colin escaped from Robin, life on Earth slowed. Mar'i was grateful to breathe. When the sun rose that first morning on Earth, Mar'i yanked open the blinds to stand in front of the window, drinking the sunlight in. Colin was gone. She saw him later, after he returned the minivan - plus escaped from Robin.

"Actually, the person who attacked you wasn't Robin," Colin said. "Not if he's the person I met. His name is Suren. He and Robin are similar. But they're not the same."

"He wore the bat symbol," Mar'i said. "He remains a threat."

"I didn't say he wasn't a threat. Just that he wasn't Robin." Colin looked at her Robin toy on a nearby desk, pensive. Mar'i wondered how many other trinkets he had stashed away. "I wonder if the last Robin died. For real, this time."

"Children always die," Mar'i said.

"You're really cheery."

"I am," Mar'i agreed.

Colin flopped on his nest of blankets with a groan. "This is gonna be a weird time," he said.

 _It already is,_  Mar'i thought.

She stretched, minding her bandages. As Colin settled in for a nap, Mar'i prepared to explore again.  _This place is strange,_  she thought. Earth was full of new things. Especially the apartment.

It was easy to miss things even when Mar'i was taking her time to look around. The apartment was a mess. Colin's shirts covered a chair, while his laundry bag spilled clean clothes onto the dusty floor. Dead flies hid between the blinds. A small waste bin in the corner overflowed with sweets wrappers, broken pens, and bandage bits. Mar'i dug through the milk crate next to it. She found one first grade reading primer - whatever that was - two vehicle magazines, and four tattered books with gristly things on the covers. Mar'i held up one of the books up to her face, squinting at it.

_Goosebumps. That means something about bird skin. I don't understand what it has to do what a scary puppet. I will ask Colin later._

Mar'i felt the Red Hood poster over the door watching her when she got up. She wanted to roast its face off. Since that would have upset Colin, she did not. Mar'i crossed her arms and stared at the poster above the door. The Red Hood stared back from where he sat astride a giant motorcycle. A red bat symbol spilled across his chest. Some of it leaked onto his hefty jacket.

"I am watching you," Mar'i muttered.

The poster did not respond. Mar'i went back to exploring, pleased with the lack of cursed objects in the apartment. She strutted into the kitchen to prove to the Red Hood poster that she was not scared of turning her back to it. The kitchen was fun: Mar'i rifled through silverware, peered into a broken toaster, ate cereal, and noticed the tile floor was checkered.

 _Cute,_  she thought.

Mar'i placed her hand in the middle of the broken counter. It was easy to imagine Abuse bringing a fist down on it. It was easy to imagine herself doing the same, too. Who did not break things when they had feelings? Who did not cartwheel in the sky, or weep themselves to sleep? Passion ruled everyone. The counter comforted Mar'i. Maybe she and Colin Wilkes of Earth had a few things in common. He was not scared of her, even if others feared both of them. They were both too strong for this delicate world around them.

The sunbeams leaking through the window shot warmth into Mar'i's skin. She floated back into the other room. Colin lay curled up in a ball, his head tucked beneath a blanket. His shoes haphazardly sat near his feet. One lace was almost worn in half. Mar'i didn't think he was asleep. She lighted in front of the desk with her Robin toy on it. The real Robin's reputation didn't keep the toy's sleek arms and bright colors from being charming.  _I want another one,_  Mar'i decided.  _I want many of them._

A teddy bear and framed photograph flanked the toy. Mar'i picked up the photograph. The woman in the frame looked past her with distracted eyes. It was the look Mom had given Mar'i whenever she was thinking about something else. The woman's ginger hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Threads of grey lined her temple. Despite this, Mar'i was pleased to see her hair; this woman and Colin were the only humans she had seen with Tamaranean colors. The woman had none of the intricate braids Mar'i had come to miss so badly. Mar'i could not tell if she was old or young.

"Colin," Mar'i said.

The lump under the covers stirred.

"I know you are not asleep."

"What?" Colin mumbled.

"Who is the woman in the frame?"

Colin did not get up from where he laid. Mar'i saw his ear and messy hair sticking from beneath the blanket. One pale hand lay on its creases. "My mom," Colin said.

 _Did she die?_  Mar'i heard her grandmother's protests echoing in her mind, heard the sound of clanking guard armor and a laser sword being unsheathed. She gritted her teeth.  _No. I am not thinking about that anymore._

"You said you did not have anyone."

"I don't." Colin stretched, face still under the blanket. "I don't know her. If you're messing with the picture, put it back."

Mar'i did.

The last place to explore was the bathroom. It was a closet with a shower, a cracked white chair that had a bowl of water in it, and another bowl with two silver spigots attached to it. The white chair was the toilet, Mar'i reminded herself. It was for flushing waste, not trash. The human at Batburger she did not hate had been very upset when Mar'i dumped several sandwich wrappers in their toilet.

The walls in the bathroom were destroyed. In several spots, pieces of wall hung by a thread. Mar'i could see the supports. They smelled of rot. Gnaw-marks covered two of them. The sink was not better. A chunk of it was missing. Mar'i kicked at the pieces she saw lying on the floor. They skittered across the linoleum with a hollow noise.

"If you're putting my toothbrush in your mouth, don't," Colin called from the other room. "I'll get you one."

"I was not touching your brush of teeths," Mar'i said, the toothpaste cap between her teeth. She gave the odd tub a squeeze. White and green paste squirted out.  _Interesting._

"What are you doing in there?"

"Using the bathroom." Mar'i spat out the toothpaste cap. She scooped up the paste and tossed it into the shower. It looked like ship pipe cleaner.

"Wait, really?"

"Yes." Mar'i turned one of shower spigots. Pipes rattled, then stained water rushed out. The paste disappeared.

"Mar'i! You have to close the door!"

Colin sounded flustered. Embarrassed. Mar'i did not understand. One, he had a blanket over his head. Two, was he scared of seeing her body? That made no sense. Everyone had a body. Even before prison had forced her to lay in her own filth among the rest of her family, she had grown up bathing, changing, and wrestling alongside twelve other wardogs of varying age. Mar'i had seen everything. That didn't count the disgusting wounds she had dressed on campaigns either.

"Why?" Mar'i said.

"Because you're showering, you dumb-butt."

The door shut from the outside.  _He's up now,_ Mar'i thought. The insult didn't bother her. She hadn't heard anger in it. Insults were only words. Fists were meant for real insults. Mar'i found herself gazing at the chipped door as the shower water kept rushing into the tub.

Whenever she thought of living alone with others, the human tongues kept yielding an equivalent word that didn't fit. 'Communal.' أُمَّةٌ. Mar'i could not explain what the words were missing. It did not convey the privacy Tamaraneans carried in their sometimes bare chests when living together. It did not fit.

Mar'i turned the water off. It was running clear now, but it was very cold. She did not want to bathe in it. She walked back over to the sink. The mirror in front of it was broken. One cracked fourth of it stuck to the wall in the bottom corner. Disappointment settled in Mar'i's chest. She had wanted to see herself. The mirror at Batburger had been covered in too much graffiti to make out anything.

Mar'i saw the deep dent in the wall at the mirror's center. Her orange skin reflected in the piece of glass left. She hunkered, trying to make out her face in the mirror left. A distorted reflection looked back at her, one made of many eye slices and nose pieces and overlapping parts.

 _Colin broke this too,_  she thought.  _Maybe he hates looking at any bodies, even his._

Or maybe not. Tamaraneans were shaped like humans. Mar'i didn't think her breasts and scars were repulsive. But maybe they were. They definitely were when compared to her cousin's, even after Livan'i's encounter with the Psion ship. Mar'i's desire to see herself died. She plucked a shard of glass off the wall, dropping it on the floor. It shattered.

Outside, Colin mumbled "Don't break anything." He likely did not realize she could hear him. Mar'i pulled back, looking at her shattered reflection whose parts did not add up to the sum of her face.

"I will not," she said, staring into her many eyes. Her hair looked even shorter and butchered. The burn scar on her cheek was everywhere.

Then Mar'i calmly put her fist through the rest of the mirror.

* * *

Mar'i's wounds were healing yet, but she could not stay inside with the dust motes and the books about bumpy goose skin. Her nerves ate themselves.  _I need to be outside,_ Mar'i thought,  _even if Suren Not-Robin and others are looking for me. I need to do something. I need to fight._

Colin needed out, too. He glanced over his shoulder every time he heard the faintest noise elsewhere in the apartment, especially if it was close to Mar'i's escape pod. He murmured to himself when checking locks or hiding away medical supplies. Mar'i began to suspect he had better hearing than she expected. Colin's face was quick to turn shifty with paranoia. The apartment felt like a trap when stayed in too long.

Besides: Mar'i had one outfit, and they needed food.

Thus, on day three, Mar'i and Colin went on a business venture outside. It was a Wednesday. Wrinkly worms squirmed on the damp sidewalk. Luckier ones squirmed in the grass. Mar'i could not amount the amount of squashed worm patties she saw on the asphalt (another word Colin had taught her). Everything smelled like wet dirt.

Crime Alley remained busy. Spent clouds softened the midday sun's glare. Children splashed around the streets in scratched-up boots. Mar'i longed for a pair of them. It felt wrong not to have boots that at least climbed over her knee. Her shoes were too short and her shorts were too long.  _Most Earth clothes are bad,_ Mar'i thought. But she liked her reflective glasses.

"I'm broke," Colin said. "We're broke."

He scrolled through a listing on his cracked cell phone with dismay. Mar'i had witnessed him take it from a mugger less than an hour ago. Her knuckles stung from satisfaction still.

'Broke,' as it turned out, meant 'did not have human currency.' It also meant 'broke' as in 'to break a nose,' which Mar'i had done recently. Mar'i was proud of herself for figuring that one out.

"And?" Mar'i said.

"We need food money."

"You said the 'soup kitchen' fed everyone," Mar'i said. "Do they not want us to return?"

"No, they do feed everyone, and we're going back later, but I feel bad about taking all their food. I dunno if you noticed, but we eat a lot, Mar'i. We also need supplies."

"I understand that last part." Mar'i stepped in a puddle, soaking her sneakers. "I do not understand the rest. Half a table of food is a light meal. They should have been ready for someone hungrier than me. You're human, and you ate three plates."

"You're not human," Colin said. "I barely am anymore. Either way, we need money."

He continued scrolling through a list on the stolen phone. Mar'i looked skyward when she heard the coos of pigeons.  _Maybe we could eat those,_  Mar'i thought.  _I could catch three or four._  The pigeons, reading her mind, stayed away from her.

Crime Alley was more open here. Mouldering clotheslines stretched above them, partitioning the sky. A defunct basketball court or two sat by the side of the road. A few teenagers played in them with a half-deflated ball, laughing. Mar'i saw bigger windows with less bars over them.

She stopped in front of one.

"Colin," Mar'i said. "Colin." She yanked his arm, pulling him three feet forward and making him look up from the phone, his brow creased. "What is  _that?_ "

"It's a thrift store," Colin said.

"I can read. I know that." Mar'i pointed at two items in the window, her heart dizzy with want. "What are those?"

There was a manikin with a dress on, a racket, and a wagon in the shop window. None of those mattered. What mattered were the brilliant, two-tone purple boots with white laces and trim. They held the shimmer of Mar'i's clothes from Tamaran when her outfit had still been new. Mar'i longed for them with every fiber of her being.

"The Moon Boots?" Colin said.

"I want them," Mar'i said. "I would kill someone for them."

"Uh, please don't kill anyone. But I get it. I want Red Hood's motorcycle jacket," Colin said, wistful. "Or a motorcycle jacket."

"Colin." Mar'i kept an iron grip on his arm. "We cannot leave until I have the boots."

She could not wait to kick someone in the face with them.

"We can't have the boots until we have money. I'm not stealing from these people again."

"We should decimate a few more muggers," Mar'i said, "take their money, buy supplies, and then buy the boots." She considered Colin's pathetically cute face. "And then the jacket."

"That's the dream," Colin said, flicking through the phone again. "That's why I'm looking through the bounty listing."

"We are going to be mercenaries?"

"Not real ones! It's not all about the money. I don't want to kill most people. I won't hurt anyone innocent. We won't do it if you don't wanna, either." Colin shrank. "It feels sleazy to me too. But people list thugs that hurt them, and the police here aren't great, so I - "

Mar'i cracked her knuckles. "This is what I am good at. What phrase did you say earlier?"

"'This sucks'?"

"No. The other one. 'I am here to kick ass.' I do not think less of you for this."

"Oh." Colin clicked on a bounty listing, quiet. He tucked his chin into his shirt. Then a smile slowly spread across his face. "...cool."

"Well?" Mar'i released his arm, impatient. Her hair flared, heating the underside of her hat.

Colin turned the cell phone around, showing an image of a beefy human with short hair and sunglasses. Mar'i did not recognize all the words listed beneath his profile, but she recognized 'lackey,' 'Mask,' 'threatened,' 'family,' and 'beating.' The reward sat at $500.

"His nickname is Pipes. He's been beating rent money out of people on this street, 'specially people different from him. He's supposed to be in the area seven blocks from here, closer to the docks," Colin said. "Pipes hangs out in a saloon called The Drunk Herring. His partner got arrested a few days ago so it's just him. Let's go kick some ass, Mar'i."

The two children gave each other reckless, wolfish grins.

* * *

Tamaran did not have an ocean. It had raging forest rivers and salt planes. Mar'i supposed a salt plane was the corpse of an ocean. Uncle Ph'yzzon had taken her and Livan'i to the salt planes, once, for Livan'i's birthday. There they had eaten salt-scorched fruit leather and fried desert lizardfish that humans had no word for. Mar'i remembered the salt smell from then.

The docks were like that, but they smelled more like dead things. Mar'i decided that dead shrimp looked like the ghosts of spiders.

"They look nothing like spiders," Colin muttered, crouching behind a shipping crate. As Abuse, his trench coat strained over his broad shoulders.

"They do," Mar'i said. "They look like that one that crawled in your hair while you were sleeping."

"God, Mar'i, don't say that."

Drunken voices echoed in the makeshift garage. Colin and Mar'i tensed. Mar'i pressed herself against a shipping crate. She knew Colin was getting into position. Through the hiss of rain outside, and the rhythm it beat on the tin roof, Mar'i heard the voices get closer. The two men were complaining about women. Their boots clacked against the cement floor.

Neon bar signs illuminated the garage entrance. The rain blurred them all together into a slick of color. When Mar'i slunk forward, she saw two silhouettes pressed against the aurora of neon lights: a tall, square-shouldered man, and a smaller one.

"The bigger one is him," Colin whispered.

Mar'i pulled back. She did not want to look at the target through the yard of motorcycles anymore. She waited. Her blood heated, slowly. Colin's hands flexed with anticipation. Mar'i saw him trying not to fidget. They had been waiting four hours in the garage for this. They could not lose their quarry now.

One of the men's voices split off, laughing. The stench of alcohol drew closer. Mar'i glimpsed the bulky man, Pipes, meandering towards the back with a set of keys out. Closer to them. It was early evening, but the storm clouds had returned, drenching the dock in darkness. Pipes muttered curses to himself. He looked smug. Brass knuckles shone on his fingers. A tattoo of a hammer rippled on his neck. Mar'i thirsted to hurt him.

Colin's face twitched when the man pushed over a smaller motorcycle. A mirror on the handlebars shattered. Pipes stepped on its tank, chucking to himself. He reached for his own cycle. The keys dangled in his meaty hands. With a groan, the garage door rolled shut, leaving a gap barely big enough for a cycle to pass.

"Now," Colin said.

"Who's there?" Pipes said.

Mar'i hurled a rusted casting net at him. The net did not open, but it did not matter. The many lead weights at the bottom of the net pelted Pipes' face and collar. His sunglasses flew off. He swore, throwing his hands up, as Mar'i and Colin ran at him from opposite directions.

"C'mere," Pipes snarled, drawing his fist back at Mar'i, "you little bitch."

Colin kicked him in the lower back. Pipes flew over his motorcycle, tripping it over with a crash. His brass knuckles clanged against the floor. Another motorcycle mirror shattered. Pipes struggled up, swearing in confusion, net dangling over his face, right as Colin punched him in the cheek. Pipes' sunglasses broke beneath his own shoe. Mar'i snarled with glee to hear the breath woosh out of his lungs.

"Who are you?" Pipes rasped, his nose dripping blood. He staggered up.

"Doesn't matter," Colin said. "We're the beating you've had coming for a long time."

Pipes swung at Colin, connecting with his jaw. Colin grunted, stepping back. As Pipes threw another swing, Mar'i threw out her leg in a vicious sweep, dropping Pipes to the ground. He collapsed like a sandbag.

Colin threw the thug down when he tried rising again. Pipes growled out slurs on his belly. Mar'i dug her fingers into his scalp and neck and yanked Pipes sideways. She forced his mouth onto the smaller motorcycle's wheel - some of the casting net still caught in his mouth - and stomped. Enamel cracked against spokes and lead sinks. Blood flew across the garage floor. Pipes choked.

"Holy shit," Colin said.

Pipes' body spasmed. Colin stepped in, raising a hand to stop Mar'i.

"We don't want to kill him," he said. "Remember? We just wanna rough him up."

Pipes wheezed. His mouth dribbled red as Colin pulled the brass knuckles off his hands. Colin took the keys next. Somehow, much to Mar'i's surprise, the human wasn't down yet. Pipes braced himself on his motorcycle and wobbled up again. Rage clouded Mar'i's sight. Surprise and Colin's presence kept from finishing what she had started.

"You're a little stupid," Colin said. "Scratch that - you're really stupid."

"Screw you," Pipes said. "I'm not losing to a nobody merc and a mutant spic."

Colin hurled him into the shipping container ten feet away. With a giant clang, one Mar'i felt in her bones, Pipes crumpled. He did not move. Colin's chest heaved.

"You might have broken his face," Mar'i said.

"Fuck him," Colin said. "He'll live."

A choir of worried, drunken voices swirled in the storm outside. Colin lifted Pipes' motorcycle off the floor with a creak of metal. He threw a leg over it. Mar'i started when Colin turned the key, awakening the bike with a howl.

"C'mon," Colin said, a hundred raw emotions in his face, savage and satisfied and not. "We might as well take the bike."

The worried choir came closer.

Mar'i jumped on the back of the motorcycle.

* * *

"How do all the jerks have the best-looking bikes? It's unfair," Colin muttered, awe in his face. He ran his hands over the motorcycle's scratched fuel tank. As Colin, it came up to his chest. Mar'i leaned against the garage's decaying wall.

"Bad luck," she said. "All of the jerks in space have the best ships too."

"Great." Colin stepped back. He put his small hands on his hips as he accessed the motorcycle. "That's the trend everywhere then, huh? But I guess it's our bike now."

A giant bruise blotched Colin's jaw. The corner of his lip was swollen. The injury looked too big for his face. But he seemed not to mind too much. Traces of adrenaline remained in Mar'i's veins. Every now and then, she wanted to fly out into another fight, fists swinging.

"We have money now, too," Mar'i said. "Whenever the poster gives it to us."

"That won't be for a little bit. Which sucks." Colin frowned. "Seriously. How did that beefy rat have a super old YZR500? How has no one stolen it yet? What's the point of it here? Crime Alley is a bad place for racing bikes. I thought we were going to die on the way back. It's a monster. I feel bad for running that light, but we couldn't stop."

 _You were cheering the entire time,_  Mar'i thought.  _And screaming._ Not that she objected. She had been doing the same, though it took her a minute to realize Colin was screaming in fear instead of elation.

"This is where all that stolen rent went," Mar'i said. "You can have nice things if you are terrible. He probably hired someone to steal it. Is the motorcycle supposed to sound as if it is coming apart?"

"Oh, absolutely," Colin said, gleeful. "If a two-stroke doesn't sound evil, something is wrong. But it's also broken. That's why we almost died at the intersection."

"I prefer spaceships," Mar'i said. "But the death motorcycle is fun."

Mar'i walked across the room to survey the remains of her escape pod. She hated it. It had been cramped and noxious even before it caught on fire. It made her want to fly again anyway.  _When I am stronger,_ Mar'i promised herself,  _I will fly everywhere. I will loop around this world._

"Maybe we should sell it," Colin said. "We would get a ton of money, if people thought it wasn't messed with."

"You do not want to sell it," Mar'i said.

"'Course not." Colin ran his hands over the bike again. It dwarfed him, but not his excitement. "This is the most badass thing I've ever seen. But what else are we going to do with it? It draws a lot of attention. It's kind of a death trap. I don't wanna be arrested for stealing a stolen race bike or selling it on the black market, either. If anyone can catch me."

While Colin chattered about the motorcycle, Mar'i noticed a white triangle on the floor. An oily slip of paper rested between the motorcycle and the door they had wheeled it in. Mar'i picked it up. She unfolded it to see fancy cursive writing surrounded by flames. An image of a car flying over an old building with monster statues clinging to the side sat below.

'Roxy Rocket's Death Dash!' the heading proclaimed. The script continued below. '7/21, Midnight. Circuit starts at the old depot. Winner takes $100k, and the opportunity to race against the hostess herself! Only the brave need apply.'

"I know why the idiot needed the motorcycle," Mar'i said. She handed the paper to Colin. He inhaled.

"Mar'i," he said. "Do you know how much money that is?"

"A lot," Mar'i said.

"Yeah, a lot." Colin paced. "The race is in three weeks. There's probably going to be a ton of villains, too. People who need to be stopped."

Mar'i thought of fighting alongside good company again. At the docks, things had almost felt normal. Mar'i wanted more of that without death hanging over her. When she looked at the crumpled remains of her escape pod, an idea struck.

"You can build things," she said. "You should add parts of my pod to the awful motorcycle."

"You're joking," Colin said. "Are you saying we should fix this thing to be a death trap with parts from a Tamaranean space pod?"

"Yes," Mar'i said. "Do not be a coward."

Colin licked his lips nervously. He fidgeted, then looked up, meeting Mar'i's gaze. Colin raised a closed fist towards her. "Let's do it," he said. "Why not. Let's make a space motorcycle and crash a villain race. I wasn't planning to live forever anyway."

Mar'i had seen that gesture on the street before. She knew what it meant.

"To glory," she said, "or death."

"Definitely glory," Colin said.

They fistbumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Children thirst for blood.  
> 2\. Colin spent the entirety of the stakeout thinking of badass comebacks. He's that type of nerd.


	7. Mawal Jamar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter contains references to and mild depictions of torture.

_The border of Lebanon and Syria, east of_ وادي البقاع _. The Und'urr. 500 years ago._

The Al Ghul woman was not cooperating and Father was upset.

She lay there on the stone floor, chains cutting into her wrists behind her back, legs splayed and mouth agape. Spit and blood smeared the floor beneath her. Her long black hair was everywhere. Suren could not believe how much hair the Al Ghul woman had. It got in her open eyes, and her mouth, and her sliced open nostril, and in all the blood on the floor, and crisped chunks of it stuck to the row of burns on the back of her neck.

People were not supposed to have hair everywhere like that. In wounds like that. Suren didn't want to see it.

Material rustled as Den Darga stepped forward. In the Und'urr's torchlight, he was all red and shadows. His helm and hood covered his upper face. Suren understood why it did, but he wished it didn't. His baba didn't look like his baba without his sparkly green eyes and black curls showing. Right now, there was just chin and sharp teeth.

Blood soaked Father's gauntlets and robe hems. Suren did not see it. He did not have to. He smelled it.

"I will ask one more time, pest," Father said. "Where is Ra's Al Ghul?"

The Al Ghul woman made a raspy noise. One of her eyes rolled up, unblinking. A strand of hair stuck to it. She heaved. Her brown back rippled wrong when she did, twisting like a broken snake. Retch filled Suren's mouth. He swallowed it.

"Die," the woman said.

Father hefted his gauntlet. Suren realized one of the lumps stuck to it was flesh.

"Very well," he said. "You are not worth the magic to extract information from you. I will beat it out of you. Suren, bring the bowl."

Suren wanted to run away from everything. He stumbled forward from his corner, the stone bowl of water in his hands. Father waited, not looking at him. Suren felt the torchlight soak him with scarlet as he stepped into the center of the room. It was him, Father, and this dying Al Ghul standing in this circle of Hell's light.

The Al Ghul woman twitched. "Heat the water, Suren," Father said.

"Yes, Father," Suren said.

He focused on his fire spell.  _Please work,_  Suren thought. The woman's body lay a foot from his feet. Blood soaked his boots. Suren's hands shook as the water in the basin bubbled, then steamed.

"He's a baby," the Al Ghul woman rasped.

"He is a Lu'un Darga," Father said. "Pour it over her."

The water was seething with bubbles and smoke now. The Al Ghul woman gasped. Stone shattered as the bowl folded in Suren's hands. Boiling water splattered Suren's palms. He burst into tears. Stoneware pieces landed into the pool of Al Ghul blood and spread hair.

Father sighed.

"We will take a rest," he said. "But we will return to finish this soon."

Suren and Den Darga retreated from the torture chamber, leaving the Al Ghul on the floor. The Und'urr tunnel surrounded them. Suren breathed easier as the stench of blood faded. He wiped his face quickly.

"I'm sorry," Suren said, keeping his head down. "I will not fail you next time."

"I know you won't," Father said. "There are no other options. But I have faith in you, Suren. This was merely your third session. There is time to grow."

Relief flared in Suren's heart. They walked into an open room, one lit by flames behind green crystal panes. The crystals dotted the walls and covered its crevices everywhere. Several of the crystal covers were broken, letting the blue of the flames shine through. Suren did not mind. It reminded him of the Pit's soothing color when he watched it from his father's lap. Mushrooms dotted the wall, too, taking in the room's green shimmer. Magic moss clung to the wall in scraggly chunks. Suren found the chamber beautiful. The air almost didn't smell stale. He tried not to let his thoughts slip to his cousins above ground who were playing in the Lu'un stronghold or cartwheeling in the hot mountains.

A horizontal rock shelf grew from the wall nearby. A wide sink five inches deep was carved into it. From a crack in the wall, a cave stream ran into the basin, burbling. The sink overflowed with icy, clear water. Sheets of it dripped onto the Und'urr floor. A line of the mushrooms grew directly beneath the shower, water bouncing off their caps. They looked less shriveled than the others.

Baba paid no mind to the mushrooms when he stepped up to the shelf. He submerged his left hand into the basin. Stained water overflowed from its sides. Suren stood by his father's side, waiting.

 _I want to build a pebble castle,_ Suren thought.  _When the Al Ghul dies I can go outside. Maybe Baba will not force me to stay with him. Maybe the Al Ghul will talk and then I can train and then go play._

"I will do my best, Baba," Suren said. "I - "

Den Darga slapped him. It was not a hard slap. It was an open-handed smack to the cheek, the kind grandfathers delivered to discipline brats that had done something stupid. Den's gauntlet stung Suren's cheek. A hand print of Al Ghul blood stuck to his face.

"What did I tell you about calling me 'baba'?" Den Darga said.

A thousand thoughts ran through Suren's mind. The predominant one was  _I messed up._  Father had told him about his preferred title three weeks ago. Suren had no excuse for this mistake. Not even one. Two mistakes was a lot for one day. He was being a sub-par student. Father's helm gazed down upon him, dispassionate.

"Not to do it, Father," Suren said. "I will not mess up again."

An offering had to be made. Suren took his father's right hand, the blistered skin on his palms shrieking. Al Ghul blood slimed his burns. Suren did not dare tremble. Father was a mountain of robes and armor that towered above him, always observing from above. Suren barely came up to his waist. Father's hand was twice the size of his; with the gauntlet, Father's hand was even bigger.

Suren kissed the back of his father's hand. The gauntlet's spikes were hard. The Al Ghul blood was warm and slippery. It threatened to get in his mouth. Suren did not gag. Even though his belly hurt and he wanted to.

Father hummed. He let Suren lift and move his hand without protest. That was a good sign. Suren released his gauntlet, not daring to cling to Father's hand. He kept his head up and gaze down. It was hard. He wanted to hide away in Father's capes from Father himself.

"Correct. You are becoming a warrior, Suren," Father said. "Children say 'baba.' Since your birthday, you are no longer a child. I am waiting for you to grow into your potential. I wish to be proud of you one day."

"Yes, Father," Suren said.

Father dipped his right hand into the basin. The blood and flecks of flesh washed away. He removed a dripping, pristine gauntlet from the pool. That same hand reached for Suren. For a moment, Suren thought a strike was coming. He withheld a flinch. Dargas didn't flinch. Then Father's cold, cold metal hand was on his face with something like gentleness, and Suren relaxed.

"You are distracted today," Father said. He wiped the blood from Suren's face with his thumb. The gauntlet scraped Suren's skin. Suren's delight at a caress made him bite his tongue. "Before we finish our business, we should take a walk and fix your hands. Come. Let's visit the Pit."

"Yes, Father."

The thought of getting away from the Al Ghul's misery and taking a walk with Baba -  _Father,_  Suren corrected himself - made the day less terrible. Father strode down the tunnel, cape swirling behind him, horned helm catching the light, as Suren followed suit. All of the Lu'un Darga guards bowed their heads to them as they passed. Suren lifted his head high.

The Und'urr was a dark place thick with skeletons, lanterns, and Lu'un Darga magic. Its tunnels and chambers formed gnarled roots in the Eastern Mountains. Suren knew that there were many parts of the Und'urr everywhere, and many of Father's temples everywhere, but he knew this one the best. The tunnel walls reminded Suren of the desert diamonds his eldest cousin had found in Saudi Arabia: hard and uneven and shiny with pride. The Und'urr's walls held many faceted secrets.

 _I hope Yaḥyā sends me a letter,_ Suren thought.  _He was here for my fifth birthday and then he gave me a gem and left. I can read much better now, so he should send me things so I do not feel lonely. Surely the Al Ghuls cannot stop him from sending letters out of Arabia. I'll order him to give me presents next time._

As they neared the Pit, Suren felt its presence. A blanket of magic settled over his body. It was a pressure without pressure - a cat's foot stepping on his neck without a cat there. A sea that was gently lapping at him. Father grew taller and prouder. Suren's fingertips tingled as they stepped into the Pit's chamber.

Green light washed over everything. The Pit's ripples reflected on the dome ceiling, turning the entire chamber into a testimony to the Lazarus Pit's strength. An ancient bond tugged at Suren's soul. Maybe Yaḥyā and the rest of his cousins were too busy to befriend him unless he demanded their presence, but the Lazarus Pit was here. Always. The way it had been here for every Darga since the dawn of time.

The Pit, a crown jewel, lay in the center of its chamber. Shallow grooves carved into the stone floor around it spiraled out from it in a circle. It looked like a sun. Suren bent to dip his palms into the inch of Pit fluid in one of them. Father held out his arm in front of him.

"Wait," Father said.

"What?" Suren pulled his blistered hands back.

Father removed his helm, setting it on the floor. Suren peered into the green eyes he had inherited.

"Go to the Pit's center," Father said. "I think it is time you communed with the Lazarus Heart and those before us."

Suren started. "Am - am I ready?"

"You must be." Father bent to look Suren in the face. "The Al Ghuls, tenacious blight that they are, are spreading. They are naught but mortals leeching off the Lazarus Heart's powers. As the Pit's true keepers, we need to eliminate those parasites and their mortal allies once and for all. We are eternal. You are eternal, as is your mother. Would you have her rot in an Al Ghul cell because you cannot use the strength bestowed upon you?"

"No," Suren said. "I love her. I want to save her."

"I know you do. You've inherited her determination."

Father did not say the words Suren wanted to hear, but Suren knew they were in him.  _You love her too,_  Suren thought. Father had to. He had never met his mother, not beyond fuzzy memories of being held and sang to, and he loved her. Father had to love her so much more since he knew her.

The Al Ghuls had captured his mother when Suren was three. The Dargas had not seen her since. But the faster Suren grew strong, the sooner they would see Mama again. There would be no more fuzzy memories. There would be new ones, Suren knew, full of songs he would actually remember this time, and Mama would hold him in the way Father would not anymore.

 _The Al Ghuls will all die, Father will have his queen back, I will have my mother back, and Father will be happy and proud of me,_  Suren thought.  _I will be the best. And when the mortals are all dead, all the Lu'un Darga can celebrate in our world that's just for us._

Now if only the Al Ghuls would die like bugs did and curl up in a corner, and not scream and bleed! They were worthless, and they had Mama, but Suren found himself breaking whenever he had to hurt an Al Ghul. They looked like his cousins. They looked like his aunties who came and went. Suren could barely hold himself together when he was in the same torture chamber as Father, even when Father was doing the work. How was he to kill them all? Wanting to do it wasn't the same as doing it.

Father must have seen something in his face, because he stood before reaching out and placing a hand on Suren's shoulder.

"Suren, your mother has been imprisoned for half of your life," Father said. "If you care to change that, if you care to lead the Lu'un Darga successfully one day, you cannot afford to show weakness again."

"I do care!" Anger shot through Suren. "I will not be weak again. I will protect her and the Lazarus Heart. No one will stand in my way."

Suren knelt, clumsy. He lost his balance for a second. His sheathed dagger, a gift from his recent sixth birthday - still too big for him - threatened to clip the floor. Suren pressed his burned hands on his knee without crying, or even tearing up. He ignored the searing pain as he looked up at his father's face.

"Father," Suren said, "my liege, grant me permission to enter the Pit."

There was a flicker of approval in Father's face. Suren thirsted for more of it.

"Permission granted," Father said.

"Thank you."

Suren rose. Father's helm watched him with its empty sockets as he walked towards the Pit. Its bluish green light brightened. Whispers brushed Suren's ear. He hesitated on the cusp of the Lazarus Pit. His boots were an inch away from the pool's edge. Suren's reflection stared back at him: an uncertain, round-faced child with smears of blood on his face. He saw the Pit in his own eyes. He was nothing and everything before it.

How did he do this? Suren had never been inside a Pit. He had seen the sick and dead go inside it, but nothing else. How did the Lu'un Darga enter their source of purpose? Was he doing this wrong? The Pit was powerful, not friendly.  _I'm scared,_  Suren thought. The Pit's whispers become louder. More insistent. An ancient force ran along Suren's skin, flirting with his veins, and he tasted warm ice.

"Speak to your grandfather, Suren," Father said. "Behold your ancestors. I did the same when I was young. Now, it is your turn."

Father was watching. He could not disappoint Father.

Suren took a deep breath, sat down, and pressed his hands to the Pit's surface. His skin bubbled, knitting together. Energy zipped through the Pit's surface.  _Here I go,_  he thought.

 _Suren?_  Grandfather's voice said.  _Is that you?_

"Yes," Suren whispered. "It's me."

_Oh, Suren. My heart. My lungs. Come closer, so I can hear you._

Suren Darga slipped into the Lazarus Pit's fluid not-waters.

He stopped hearing anyone familiar to him in minutes. There was only the overlapping voices in the Pit, and its eternal promise.

* * *

The Lazarus Pit's fluid had not finished drying from his hair when he entered the torture chamber. Suren felt its beads evaporating as he stalked into the room. The Al Ghul woman had not moved. Pieces of broken stoneware surrounded her. Suren ignored them. Several shards crunched underfoot as he stepped next to her. His knife was drawn. Father was watching.

"You," the Al Ghul said. Her hair stuck in her wounds.

"Me," Suren said.

His hands shook with nervousness. That was bad. The countless voices and distorted images from the Lazarus Pit crowded his head. Phantom blood slicked the back of his throat.  _This is nothing,_ Suren thought.  _What I am about to do is so small compared to everything that's happened. I can do it._  Suren's hair was on end. He felt reborn and old all at once. Everything was raw.

"You slighted me," Suren said.

He was kneeling, somehow. The Al Ghul woman was staring at his knife. She was tired and scared.  _Good,_  Suren thought, wrangling his own fear. Father blurred to nothing in his peripheral.

"I don't know you," the Al Ghul woman muttered.

"You do." Suren inched the knife closer to her ribs. "My name is Suren Darga of the Lu'un. I am their heir."

His knife point hovered above her lowest rib. The Al Ghul sweated. Her fingers twisted behind her in an attempt to pray. Nothing came out. Suren found his own nausea wavering.

"I know the Al Ghuls train their own children at my age," Suren said. "You called me a baby. You think I'm weaker than your people."

"No," the Al Ghul said.

"Well, I'm not." Suren gripped his knife tighter to staunch the quivering. "As the prince of the Lu'un Darga, I cannot allow that insult to stand."

The words spilling out of him were sleek and threatening and he wanted to stumble over them but something kept him from doing so. Liquid ran down the back of his neck. Suren did not know if it was sweat or the Pit's depths. He heard its murmurings yet.

"Please," the Al Ghul said.

Sliding the knife between her ribs wasn't hard. It hurt, for a second. Suren felt terrible; his tears and retch threatened to emerge. It felt like stabbing himself. Then the feeling was gone. Everything seemed… muted. Even the scream that echoed around the room. The world felt less disruptive.

 _This doesn't matter,_  Suren realized, suddenly.  _She isn't real._ The Al Ghul woman did not look like his cousins. Or his aunties. Or anyone. She was a collection of parts bundled together on the floor, like a collection of grasshopper bits. She was just a hollow, paper thing to crush on his way to helping Mama and Baba. Her scream was a paper thing too.

Well. Not quite. Her scream sounded real. Suren didn't like that. But the Lazarus Pit's voices rose above hers. The Al Ghul woman's voice went under an ocean of numbing sound. Under the Pit's distortion, she sounded… irritating.  _She does not matter,_  Suren thought. This was for the greater good. The Al Ghul deserved this. The tears in Suren's lashes fled.

Suren pulled the knife out of the woman's ribs. Father said something. Maybe it was a compliment. Suren did not hear it. He moved the knife up another rung. The Al Ghul woman was crying.

"Where," Suren said, "is Ra's Al Ghul?"

Her answer wasn't good. Suren punched his knife down in hopes of a better one. The Al Ghul woman screamed again. So the cycle continued, til all was spent.

Suren felt better when his father's hand ruffled his hair at the end.

"I am proud of you, Suren," Father said.

* * *

* * *

Suren Darga never met his mother. She would be held prisoner for two more years until the Al Ghuls killed her. They did not find her body. Four more years after that, Suren was twelve, and all Lu'un Darga except Father were slaughtered beneath an Al Ghul assault. Including him.

* * *

* * *

  _Gotham. Wayne Manor. The present day._

Suren woke up with a dry mouth and Lazarus Pit whispers in his mind.

He frowned, sitting up sluggishly. The comforter slid off Suren's chest. Sunlight filtered through his blinds. The birds outside were singing far too loudly.  _Do they never sleep?_  Suren thought.  _Perhaps they sing solely to annoy others._  He was not sure about that. Suren rubbed his face. Somewhere outside, Damian's giant dog was barking. He bet that Batgirl had taken the beast on a run.

 _Til all are one,_  the Pit whispered.  _Til all are one._

"Stop it," Suren muttered. He yawned.

The ripple of voices in the back of his mind vanished. Suren combed his hair with his fingers. He hoped the whispers would not come again tomorrow. It was always annoying when they decided to show. Suren had many things to be doing, such as hunting down Colin Wilkes and the space demon. Being harassed by his ancestors would not help with that. Their mission was no longer his.

 _You treat this as a game,_  Den Darga's voice said.  _It's no wonder you failed at the task I gave you. You were too insolent to follow through. I should have beaten you more._

"This is the most like you that you have sounded in a long time, Father," Suren said.

It felt less odd to speak to Father aloud when there was no one else present. Suren climbed out of bed and began searching for clothes. He resented wearing the boxers with cows on them that head servant Pennyworth had given him. Suren suspected they were Damian's. Why Damian Al Ghul enjoyed animals so much, he did not know. It was insulting to be given an Al Ghul's clothes but he would tolerate it.

 _If I do not sound myself, that is your fault,_  Father said.  _You splintered my soul in the effort to save your little Al Ghul friend. Part of my voice is your imagination. We both know it is. How often you make me say 'my lungs'! Ha! As if you deserve affection._

"Imagination or not, I wish you would talk less."

Suren pulled on a pair of pants. He frowned to see half an inch of extra material at the bottom. Was Damian taller than him? No. That could not be.

Without trusted servants to tend to his room, Suren's belongings had fallen into slight chaos. His Darga attire lay folded on a chair in the corner, the helm sitting on top of them. Dirty clothes hung out of the hamper. Several history and magic books lay open on his desk. Suren's map of Gotham on the wall had pins in locations now. He had grown tired of not knowing the city, so he was learning its layout now. A plate littered with plum pits and half a sliced plum sat on the floor near the desk leg. Two tubs of sword polish and a half empty mug of tea and claimed the nightstand. Prior to the current chaos, Suren had considered acquiring candles.

 _You should have completely obliterated me or let me rip the Damian boy apart,_  Father said. _It would have been better than existing like this: a spiritual splinter in my ungrateful son's mind._

"I do not want to be hearing you," Suren pointed out. "This is your fault."

_It is partially yours._

"Whatever."

The obnoxious light on his phone was blinking. Suren checked his messages. 'Come down to the Batcave when you wake up,' Oracle's text said. 'The tracker is functional.'

"Good," Suren muttered. He yanked on a shirt. Finally, progress was being made. He snatched his sword, stalking out the door.

 _You are a disgrace,_  Den Darga said,  _for leaving the Lu'un helm in your room as if it is a trinket. It is not like the cowls of those who accompany you. Have you forgotten who you are?_

"I killed you before," Suren said. "I will kill you again if you do not shut up."

_There is only one way to do that, which I have encouraged you to do already._

"That is not going to happen," Suren said.

He jogged down the stairs, Wayne Manor's carpet soft beneath his feet. The smell of eggs wafted from below. Head servant Pennyworth was clearly in the kitchen. The food would likely be bland, Suren knew, but it would be filling. At this point in time he valued a solid meal over the murmuring of those in the Lazarus Pit. It was more helpful.

Father had nothing to say to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suren's backstory was not supposed to make an appearance, but here we are.  
> 1\. وادي البقاع is the Beqaa Valley.  
> 2\. Arabic phrases are not written in script whenever the entirety of a conversation is Arabic, just for the sake of consistency.  
> 3\. Pit Madness is a hell of an experience.  
> 4\. The canon backstory for the Lu'un Darga was such an incredible waste of potential, so this is an attempt to make amends.


	8. Humana

The Batcave was dim at all hours of the day, but it was not the breathing, living dimness of the Und'urr that Suren was accustomed to. The modern world did not seem friendly towards that sort of darkness. Instead, it clung to contrast. Harsh, steady lights illuminated the Batcave's walkways and platforms. Suren resisted the urge to shield his face when he walked beneath them. It felt wrong to be surrounded by lights that never flickered or swayed.

Suren strode past the Tyrannosaurus statue on his way to greet Oracle. Every time he saw it, he remembered the simpler times a year and a half ago, when he had warred against Damian and Maya for no other purpose than to serve his father. Many things had changed since then.

 _Our fight on Dinosaur Island feels like it occurred an infinity ago,_  Suren thought.  _The Und'urr and the old home in Lebanon feels so far away, too. Qurqumaz is no longer bothering the mortals, and the Lu'un stronghold in the mountains may be gone. History is as kind as Father was._

 _Mortals deserve no kindness from time,_  Father said.  _They deserve to be annihilated. So did the Lu'un Darga who weren't strong enough to stand behind me._

Suren wanted to break something. The Pit's whispers became louder. Suren stomped down the walkway to shake their hold on him. This was not going to be a good day. He hoped Oracle had worthwhile results to share with him. The mix of awe and disdain he experienced around her was tiring on a good day. Suren did not want to tangle with it now. Pennyworth's eggs florentine sat heavy in his stomach.

To his surprise, Oracle was not in her chair. She was not there at all. Red Robin and Black Bat clustered around her work station, picking at technology and papers. A little computer screen blared news behind them. The woman on the screen chattered about weather in Gotham with a fake smile. Suren smelled doughnuts.

Black Bat perched on a table instead of a chair. Her chin rested atop her knees as she fondly watched Red Robin work. Red Robin, mask off, had a tiny probe buried in the entrails of a black box. He picked at the wires with concentration.

Perhaps it was the bad mood, but Suren wished Red Robin would make an error and get electrocuted. If he embarrassed himself, Black Bat would stop looking at him with that expression. Suren very much wanted her to look at him that way instead.

"Suren," Red Robin said. "You're awake."

"Do not sound so surprised," Suren said.

 _This was a waste of time,_ he thought, feeling Father's phantom hands on his shoulders. _I should have gone after the space demon by myself again. Why am I waiting for Damian's family to help me? I have never needed nor received help before. I am competent._

Black Bat turned her head, smiling. "Suren!"

Maybe this had the potential to not be a waste of time. If Black Bat was optimistic, Oracle's tracker had to be operational. Suren elected against overpowering the mortals to receive the information he wanted. Today, they all sounded adjacent to buzzing insects. Still, Oracle's empty spot perturbed him. The absence of her bossy voice and confident typing left a gap in the Batcave.

"Where is Oracle?" Suren said.

"Home," Red Robin said. "She has a life outside of Wayne Manor."

The concept of having two great loyalties was new to Suren, but not new enough to bother him. He 'hmm'd in response. A tiny weight left his back. As long as Oracle did not get broken on her day out like she had been once before, she would be fine. Not that she deserved much of his concern. Father's presence snorted at the idea of Oracle healing and receiving a second chance.  _What Darga worth anything gives failures second chances?_

"Is that the tracker? Oracle messaged me about it," Suren said.

Red Robin pushed his hair behind his ear. Black Bat's gaze was on Suren. The news woman on the screen kept talking. Suren's silence had ran on a little long.

"Yeah," Red Robin said. "This is it." He turned the black box around, tilting it. A green screen full of lines glowed on its face. "There are a few bugs we need to work out, but overall, it works. It should track the metal samples you and Cass took. Especially if the metal is being heated for use."

"Excellent." Suren held out his hand.

Red Robin did not give him the tracker.

"Suren, we need to talk about field attire," he said.

"Field attire?" Suren felt his eyebrows arching. He did not like how Red Robin had said that. It sounded formal and commanding.

"Wear a mask," Red Robin said. "You should be wearing one to start with if you're on patrol. People can't know who you are."

 _Are they ashamed of fighting alongside a Darga?_  the Lazarus Pit whispered.

"I was born at least four centuries before most of the people here," Suren said, "including you. Damian says that mortals keep track of births now, but even if they do, I do not exist to them. Why should I wear a mask? They should learn who I am. They should be scared."

Frustration creased Red Robin's face. Black Bat seemed torn between watching them and whatever grisly worldwide news was unfolding on the television.

"They might not know who you are, but if they see you with us outside of costume, they can put many other conclusions together," Red Robin said. "The last time Babs asked you to wear a mask you reacted unreasonably. So I'm telling you that you need to wear one. If not, you can't go on the Tamaranean mission."

So this was Oracle, then, speaking through Red Robin in an imitation of her namesake. Suren scowled. He wanted to throttle Red Robin until Oracle's presence departed. Red Robin stared back, undaunted. His face was a big pale disk, like an owl's. Suren struggled not to lash out and shatter it. He knew he could do it. He had done it before to others.  _I should take what I want,_ Suren thought.  _It is better for everyone._ Lazarus Pit fluid trickled down his spine.

"Who is going to make me wear a mask?" Suren said. "You?"

"Yes," Red Robin said, crossing his arms. "Me. Black Bat. Batgirl. Batman."

"Batman is not here."

"Bruce is checking in on Robin," Red Robin said. "What do you think Ra's Al Ghul would do to Maya and Damian if he caught them  _and_  realized they were hiding the last Lu'un Darga?"

Suren crushed down his worry before Father could tear into him about it.  _Damian and Maya will be fine,_ he told himself.  _If Father or I could not kill them in a fit of homicidal rage, nothing can. They are strong._  Suren knew he would hear from them soon enough. They were not like his cousins. Besides: if worst came to worst, there was the Pit. Even if the thought of mortal bodies entering the Lazarus Pit made Suren gag.

"You know nothing of my family," Suren said.

"I know enough," Red Robin said.

The League of Assassins were on the television screen, too. Their name rolled along the bottom ribbon alongside images of conflict and chaos. The news reporter prattled on about the threat they posed worldwide. Black Bat's attention was fixed on the screen. Her shoulders were drawn in. Whatever she saw there was more pressing than Red Robin and Suren's headbutting.

Suren and Red Robin stared each other down. Red Robin looked poised for peace or striking. Part of him always looked ready for conflict. Suren itched to stab Red Robin. He restrained himself.  _Red Robin is Damian's least favorite sibling,_  Suren reminded himself,  _but he is still Damian's sibling. If anyone is going to stab Red Robin again, it is his brother._

"Well?" Red Robin said, tense.

Suren remembered the dinner with Damian's father and Red Robin. Timothy Drake had not known what to make of him, but he had granted Suren hospitality anyway. Even after his past violent encounters with Damian. That meant something. Red Robin's face resembled a face instead of a sharp oval again. Suren shook off the violent shadow inside him. He did not need to hurt anyone.

 _You are pathetic,_ Father said.

"Fine," Suren said. "You have my word that I wear a mask."

"Glad to hear it," Red Robin said.

Their motions remained stiff when Red Robin handed Suren the tracker. Suren stuffed it in his pocket without looking Red Robin in the face. He needed to leave. Electricity pulled his muscles tight with the urge to fight or escape. The Pit voices pressed heavy against his lower back, crying out. A healed stab wound over Suren's kidney burned. The Batcave walkway reverberated under his boots with a broken echo as he left.

"Suren," Black Bat said.

Suren started. He did not realize his sword was drawn until Black Bat looked at him with sorrow. Red Robin was watching too, his hand on his staff. Suren sheathed his sword. The dinosaur statue loomed above them. A sick feeling swam in Suren's chest. It was wrong for any Wayne-Al Ghuls to see him this way.

"What?" Suren said.

"Want to talk," Black Bat said.

"We are finished talking," Suren said. "I agreed to what your family wanted."

Black Bat shook her head. "Not about that." She waved her arms at the Batcave. "Or this."

"Then what?"

Suren did not feel ready to split in half but the mood was coming. Black Bat put a hand to her chin, considering her answer. Exhaustion hung under her eyes.

"Food?" she offered.

It was morning. Suren's desire to leave the manor outweighed his desire to be alone. Why not?

"Okay," Suren said, caught off guard. "Food."

Black Bat flashed him a smile. "You pick."

She waved at Red Robin as they left the Batcave.

* * *

At 10:30 AM, Mazia's Bakery was busy. But the crowd was not unbearable. Suren found it more comforting than Gotham's crowds elsewhere. Mazia's Bakery was a one-room cafe sandwiched between a dry cleaning business and a tobacco shop. Its storefront was nothing but windows. A lit-up white sign sat above them, bearing the bakery's phone number and its name in English and Arabic. Laminated menus, pictures of pita, and a light-up 'OPEN' sign with hours all cluttered the windows.

Without suits or masks on, Suren and Black Bat wedged themselves into a corner table at the bakery. Suren dug into his plate of ورق عريش محشي with gusto. He was not hungry, but there was always room in him for stuffed grape leaves. The Pit's voices softened. The Lu'un Darga spirits settled when they knew Suren was among his people. Mortals were not Dargas, but they were the closest company to his family Suren could have.

A full mouth also meant that he avoided speaking to Black Bat. Despite his want for her attention, Suren did not know what to do with it. Nor did he want to discuss his half-confrontation with Red Robin. Right now, Black Bat was in the middle of decimating a serving of فطاير. Flecks of spinach and pastry stuck to her face.  _So much for talking,_  Suren thought. He was grateful for the distraction.

Fariha was not an Arab, and her husband was Iranian, but perhaps they would like this place. Damian likely ate here every month.

Sounds of a basketball game emitted from the bulky television screen bolted in the left corner of the ceiling. Suren did not know any of its rules or teams. A group of Lebanese old men sat at the table by the television, watching it intensely. Whenever the man in stripes blew his whistle, or the orange ball made it through the hoop, they exploded. There was much arguing in Arabic and gesturing.

"What kind of game?" Black Bat said.

"Basketball, I think," Suren said. "I do not know anything else about it."

The bakery's kitchen was also rowdy. A family of four women worked behind the counter, laughing and gossiping as they folded out dough together. Their hair colors ranged from aged white, to peppered, to the purest black. The youngest daughter wore a purple flower-patterned hijab. Floury fingerprints stuck to it. Her grandmother, mother, and sister teased her for the mess at every given opportunity. She worked on, sassing them back.

Suren could not remember the last time he had been in a kitchen with his family. He had certainly never been in one with his father. After he turned six in 1509 - a hazy year he did not remember well - Father had been less keen on his allowing his son to participate in fun family gatherings.  _But Father did not ban me from the kitchens until I was ten,_  Suren thought.  _That was when emptying the world and protecting the Lazarus Heart truly took over his life._

 _Can you blame me?_  Father muttered.

Black Bat put away her last فطاير. She wiped the crumbs from her face. Normally, Black Bat poked her face into everything. Today she did not. Black Bat tucked her hair behind her ear, watching as the basketball game went to commercials. The grandmother changed the channel to the news. All of the Lebanese old men grumbled. Black Bat turned away from more cover on the League of Assassins.

"Damian and Maya will be fine," Suren said. "Damian knows how to handle his people. They are too smart and obnoxious to die."

"Not his people," Black Bat said.

"He grew up with them," Suren said. "They are part of him whether he likes it or not."

Black Bat frowned. She looked like she had many things to say, but did not know how to put them all together. Her hands clasped. More than anything else, she looked guilty and tired.

"Not what I meant," she said. "But not his people."

"Then what do you mean?"

Black Bat pursed her lips. Her brow furrowed. Suren remembered what it had been like to first speak English, and how stupid he had sounded when slowly piecing his sentences together. Nothing in the English language had been a friend to him. He had killed several men for mocking his stilted pronunciation. Even now, Suren did not like English. For Black Bat, it seemed that every spoken language was her enemy. None of them treated her well.

Black Bat's hands spun to make a sign at Suren before she stopped herself. She put her hands on the table again. "They are handling my father too."

Suren started. "Are you an Al Ghul by blood?"

Black Bat shook her head. "Cain."

"Ah," Suren said.

The Lebanese old men finished drinking their coffee. It was time to see the game again, so they clamored for a channel change. The grandmother clicked the remote. All of the destruction on the news vanished, giving way to the basketball court again. One of the old men blew a kiss at the grandmother. She pretended to swat it away.

"So Damian and Maya are fighting your family, too."

"Not my family," Black Bat said, fierce. "No."

"That is not how that works. Ow!"

Suren shielded his face after a spoon bounced off his forehead. Black Bat shushed him. "Wrong," she said, a fork at the ready in her other hand. "Listen."

"I am," Suren snapped.

Black Bat put the fork down. She took a deep breath. Confidence sharpened her posture.  _Did she rehearse this?_  Suren thought. He flushed. If Black Bat had not thrown a spoon at him, he would have been more flattered.

"Not all children have… childhood," Black Bat said. "Our families do bad things. We do bad things with them - not with choice. It does not make us bad." She pointed to herself. "I am Cassandra Wayne. Not Cain. We are not our bad families. We don't have to be them." Black Bat pointed at Suren. "You do not either."

 _People who live here are obsessed with childhood,_  Suren thought.  _I do not understand that. Maybe I should ask Damian about it. What is so special about being small?_

A ball of mixed feelings roiled in Suren's chest. He could not leave the Lu'un Darga behind. He was their prince, their son, their cousin, and their nephew, and now, he was the last one of them left. To leave his family's name behind would be to kill them. Suren did not think he had that in him.  _But I still cannot complete their quest to end the world,_  Suren thought. So was it better or worse to disappoint his family?

In truth, it did not matter if he tried leaving the Lu'un Darga or not. The Lazarus Pit's whispers would always cling to him. They did now, again, murmuring with hatred at Black Bat. Leaving the Darga title behind would only be for show. It would certainly make life easier. But Suren did not want to die and return to his mother having forsaken her name. Black Bat watched his face intently.

"It is not the same for me," Suren said.

He picked at the remains of a grape leaf. Suren scooped up the last loose grains of brown rice with it and ate it. He did not want to talk. He did not want to be here. He did not want to face his failures.

 _Kill the League's servant,_  the Lazarus Pit's voices said.  _Make the Al Ghuls suffer. They inflict enough suffering upon others._  Deep in them, somewhere, cousin Yaḥyā sighed.

Black Bat gripped her own hands again to keep them from signing.

"Complicated," she said, quiet.

 _Shut up,_  Suren thought, knowing her guilty eyes understood more than he wanted them to. Black Bat was covered in scars for a reason.  _Shut up. You can tell I want to hurt you when I get upset. Batgirl can tell, too. If I were someone in the League of Assassins who watched you this way, you would kill me. Why do you keep doing this? Stop it! I'll murder you and the family you hate!_

Black Bat stared back at him, unflinching.

Suren stood. "We are leaving."

They left a $50 bill on the table and departed.

* * *

Even if Black Bat's presence agitated him, it was better to be around her than to be in Wayne Manor. Suren got the impression that Black Bat did not want to be in the manor either. When they began heading back, she walked slower, dragging her feet. When Suren detoured towards a park, she walked faster. Her head came up. Black Bat was not as cheerful as she had been during the Crime Alley sweep, but lunch had helped her.

The park was small but well-maintained. All of its grass was a crisp, unnatural green.  _Alchemy,_ Suren thought. Multiple benches sat around a pond that hosted an abstract fountain. Water tumbled down its twisting sides. Ducks floated around the pond, sedately letting the fountain rain on them. Suren began to suspect that ducks were the west's equivalent of peafowl: evil creatures that looked good on property. A handful of people fed ducks across the pond.

Suren and Black Bat sat on a bench. Suren put space between them. His boots brushed the ground. If he stretched, his heels touched. Black Bat sat with her hands in her hoodie pocket and legs crossed. She observed the park, silent.

The Lazarus Pit's voices settled into a simmer in the back of Suren's mind. He glared at a duck for a long time, hoping to set it on fire with his mind. The duck responded by paddling away. Flecks of algae floated in its wake.

"Violent," Black Bat said.

"I am violent," Suren said. "You mortals are lucky I did not finish my father's plans. Stop watching me."

Black Bat shook her head.  _That is an 'I cannot' and an 'I will not' in one,_  Suren thought.  _It is not firm enough to be a 'no.'_

"One more thing to say," Black Bat said.

Suren groaned. "Say it."

Black Bat sat up. Suren started when she ruffled his hair. She was gentle. Suren knew she did not have to be: he had seen the results when Black Bat chose to be harsh.  _In Father's view, we are both weapons,_  he realized, bitter. Black Bat's touch felt strong and warm and weird.

"Someone told me: you aren't a monster," Black Bat said. "That's what they tried to make you. It didn't work. You are a hero. You picked it. You too, Suren."

Speaking tired Black Bat, but her words now were more confident. They flowed easier. Some of the shadows left her face. A numb ache hit Suren. He did not know what to do with it.

Suren asked, "Did Batman tell you that?"

Black Bat nodded. She petted Suren's head.

Having someone comfort him was bizarre. At least it was graceful Black Bat. Suren's face was suddenly hot again. Black Bat hid a smile. She knew something Suren didn't, something she found funny, and he was not in on the joke. Suren shoved Black Bat's hand off his hair. She looked amused.

"Do not touch me again," Suren said.

"Okay."

Suren huffed. "What do you mean, 'okay'?"

Black Bat rose from the bench, spinning on her heel. She hid her mouth behind her hand. Her hoodie sleeves and drawstrings swirled with her. "You like me."

"If I did not, you wouldn't be in my presence," Suren said.

"Not like - oh." Black Bat laughed as Suren hopped off the bench.

"What?"

Suren hated Black Bat and her infinity of secrets. Why did she, of all people, possess the ability to read intent? Her face was brighter.

"I like you too," Black Bat said.

Suren did not need to say 'Thank you. No one has ever said those other words to me before.' Black Bat saw it with ease. They both knew she did.

* * *

_One week later._

"What is the Tamaranean's ship doing at a dump?"

"I don't know." Red Robin frowned, looking at the tracker screen. "Not only is it at a dump, but it's doing laps at a dump. They didn't go there to throw it away."

"The ship should not be working at all," Suren said.

He and Red Robin sat at Wayne Manor's immense empty table, a mug of coffee, an obnoxious race flyer, and an abandoned whetstone in front of them. Red Robin looked as if he were running off three hours of sleep.  _If his body seizes up, I cannot help him,_  Suren thought.  _He had better not die before we investigate._  The dot on the tracker screen sat several miles outside Gotham. Suren had not known it was a dump until Red Robin told him so. Every now and then, the dot quivered, but did not leave the area. Zooming in displayed it running circles.

"No," Red Robin said, "it shouldn't. I have a hunch or two about why it is. We should investigate before I make any guesses."

Suren clicked his dagger hilt against its sheath. His sword was upstairs. Head servant Pennyworth had not liked him sharpening his scimitar at the table,but Suren had gotten away with working on his dagger. Red Robin leaned away from Suren's blade.

"Then let's go," Suren said. "Now. While it is still there."

Red Robin got up, weary. "We should," he said. "I sense you have a plan already."

His face scrunched up as he drained the last dregs of his coffee. Suren wondered how many tablespoons of sugar had been dumped in there. By Damian's logic, the more sugar one casually ate, the more relaxed they were. Red Robin served as a direct rebuttal to that rule. He was a walking mess of plans and bad luck.

Suren gave Red Robin a fanged grin.

"Have you ever teleported before, Red Robin?"

"No," Red Robin said.

Red Robin tried to keep his face straight. Suren saw the tiny crack of anxiety at the beginning.  _Good,_  he thought. Was this how Alfred the cat felt whenever he stalked someone's ankle?

"Then congratulations," Suren said. "You will be the first ex-Robin to squeeze your mortal carcass through an inter-dimensional passageway."

"There has to be a more economic and stealthy way to do this," Red Robin said.

"There is not."

"I'm certain there is."

"You are wrong."

"Great."

Red Robin tried to drink more coffee. There was none left. He set the mug down with a hint of despair. Suren was pleased to see resignation in his expression.

"Well, there's a first time for everything," Red Robin said.

He was right about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra invited herself into this story. But we're back on track towards the main plot.


	9. Hurt

The dump outside of Gotham was an immense labyrinth of trash. Broken billboards, crumpled cars, and mountains of debris piled up inside high, barbwire-crowned fences. Several thin roads snaked between the garbage mountains, their dirt barely visible between busted washing machines and squashed cars. Everything reeked of rust and neglect. Whenever a superhero or supervillain destroyed a block of the city, the aftermath garbage went here.

'KEEP OUT' signs hung crooked on the fences. A dented 'TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT' sign was nailed to the one-room dump office door. Stapled below it was a yellowed memo pad with palm trees and sunglasses wearing flamingos. 'On vacation,' it said. 'Be back in two weeks.' Security cameras lay broken on the ground nearby.

 _Maybe the manager is on vacation,_  Colin thought,  _but the birds aren't._

Crows were everywhere. They dotted the garbage heaps, cawing as they fluttered from trash pile to trash pile. A murder of them dotted the far-off arm of a crane. Colin felt like an adventurer navigating a strange land.

The dump was quiet. Where was the motorcycle? Colin wrung his hands, spreading motor oil from one to the other. Had Mar'i crashed the bike again? He hoped not. The paint job was already ruined. Colin skittered further down one of the paths, trying to get a view of Mar'i. He saw nothing but trash. A tin can rolled past his foot.

"Mar'i?" he called.

No reply. Next to the office building, one of the crows hopped close to his tool bag. Colin threw a pebble at it. It wheeled back, cawing.

"Shoo!" Colin said. "Get out of here!"

The crow sulked. It peered at Colin with beady eyes. None of it or its brethren flew too far away. They perched on a bench nearby, observing him. Judging him.

 _Crows are evil,_  Colin thought. Animals had disliked him ever since he escaped from Scarecrow's lab, but crows were smart enough to harass him. Everything else stayed out of the way. Colin's neck itched. He glanced behind him. It was hard not to feel watched.

Behind a distant heap of garbage, a motorcycle roared to life. Its engine screamed as it rounded an unseen corner. It was coming closer. Colin heard gears shift as the engine howled.  _Here she comes,_  Colin thought.

He rubbed oil onto his pants leg. Excitement give him jitters. The makeshift ramp nearby - billboards stacked onto a tall trash pile - made Colin nervous. Either he was about to see something badass, or the bike was about to be totalled. He hoped the shocks worked.

Mar'i came into view seconds later. She perched on top of the massive, skeletal bike, her heels pressed onto the foot rests and hands clenched around the handlebars. Her fire hair blew behind her in an outline of black and purple. The motorcycle flew over the dirt road in a blur, screaming and jerking as it went. Mar'i bit her tongue in concentration. In seconds, she crossed the space between them, passing Colin.

"Hit the middle of the ramp!" Colin yelled. Wind snatched his shirt; wind-thrown pebbles peppered him. Colin threw his arm over his face.

The motorcycle howled when Mar'i wrang the throttle. It hit the ramp at fifty miles per hour, shot up the billboard, and launched into the sky. Colin stared as Mar'i and the bike sailed over a mountain of garbage. She overshot the other ramp. Mar'i's body floated off the motorcycle even as she clenched the handlebars. For a moment, both Mar'i and the bike were flying: glowing, fierce silhouettes frozen in time against the sky.

"Oh shit," Colin said.

The motorcycle landed with a crash on the side of another garbage mountain. Colin heard the thud as the shocks gave out. Mar'i tumbled head over heels in the air before catching herself, floating. The motorcycle twisted in her grip with a scream. Its still-spinning back wheel kicked up trash.

Colin threw off his shirt, morphed into Abuse, and sprinted. He got there in time to catch the motorcycle right as it spun and yanked Mar'i out of the sky. She tumbled down the garbage hill with a shout.

"Mar'i!" Colin laid the seething bike down on its side. He shut it off. Its keys were hot against his palm as he stumbled down the garbage mountain. Mar'i climbed to her feet, scratches covering her arms and legs. The healing cut on her arm leaked blood.

"You said motorcycles could not fly," she said. "You were wrong."

Colin laughed in relief. He fistpumped, twirling on his heel. Garbage groaned under Abuse's weight.

"Holy cow," he said. "That was amazing. You're amazing."

Mar'i laughed. "Of course I am!"

They high-fived.

"The shocks on the bike are completely dead," Colin said, he and Mar'i scrambling up the garbage pile to retrieve the bike, "but we can find new ones. Maybe your spaceship has some. Maybe we can steal another henchman's bike and take those. This is so fuckin' cool! We're gonna destroy that race."

Mar'i trembled with adrenaline. Her chest was no longer heaving, but her breathing had not become even yet.  _She needs new clothes already,_  Colin thought.  _We need to get some helmets, too. I don't wanna die doing this._ As Abuse, Colin lifted the bike. He could not handle any part of it as Colin.

Mar'i's sweater was shredded. One of her sneakers was almost torn in half. She looked scuffed and scratched up, but more than anything else, Mar'i looked alive. The raw fear and suspicion that had lined her gaze whenever she looked at Colin during the first week was gone now. It made Colin feel warm.

He almost trusted her.

"We need to name it," Mar'i said.

She ran her hand over the bike's side. It barely resembled a YZR500 any longer. Its fuel tank was dented. White smears of paint clung to its side. Scars laced the seat upholstery. Pieces of green Tamaranean metal and strange lights glowed within the engine. It smelled of gasoline and something metallic Colin couldn't place.

"Yeah," Colin said, "we do. The name's important."

Only the motorcycle's shape was familiar to Colin. His heart soared as he looked at it.  _I've never built anything with anyone before,_  Colin thought.  _Especially not a space bike._  Breaking into the mechanic's shop to check out cool cars and getting basic mechanic lessons - after getting a thrashing - did not count. The mechanics were not friends with him. Colin squeezed the bike again to be sure it was real.

"This is crazy," he said. "I always wanted a motorcycle and I always wanted knuckledusters. After we kicked that one guy's butt, I have both. Who says heroing doesn't get you cool stuff?"

"Do humans say that?" Mar'i said.

"I don't know," Colin said. "Maybe. Mostly they say heroing is dangerous and call heroes crazy."

"They are weak," Mar'i said. "They are missing out."

"They are."

Colin and Mar'i carefully leaned the motorcycle against a discarded car. Its kickstand had been ripped off the last time they had tested it. Mar'i took a stance, placing her hands on her thin hips.

"We should call it G'estindiz'r," she said. "The Destroyer."

"That's a mouthful," Colin said. "How about the Cycle of Abuse?"

"That is a bad name," Mar'i said. "Don't say it again."

"Oh, come on! It's a pun! It's good! Bikes are supposed to be named stuff like that," Colin said. "You love puns!"

"I did not love that one," Mar'i said. It is very bad. Stop naming things."

"It's still better than Gestindiz'r. Or whatever that was."

"G'estindiz'r," Mar'i said. "It has a throat noise."

"It's not a good name when you say it right either." Colin threw up his hands. "If you don't want me to name the bike, what are we gonna name it, then?"

Mar'i pursed her lips in thought.

"The Mar'i-cycle."

"No," Colin said.

"Yes. I am better at riding the bike than you," Mar'i said. "And it is a pun."

Colin spluttered. "Hey! No you're not! You've been riding it just 'cause I don't have a helmet yet and I don't wanna be Abuse all the time."

Mar'i poked his chest. When he was Colin, she towered over him. As Abuse, he towered over her. It was a nice change of pace. The nearby crows cawed, harbingers of unease.

"It has parts of my ship in it, so I get to name it," Mar'i said. "It's my bike."

"It wouldn't have parts of your ship in it without me," Colin shot back. "It's my bike."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Whatever. We will agree that it my bike later. Right now, we must name it something," Mar'i said.

"Your bike? In your dreams," Colin grumbled.

Colin morphed back into himself. He shivered as a breeze unexpectedly brushed his back. The world seemed so small as Abuse. Becoming Colin again meant watching it grow larger and more dangerous around him as he diminished into a speck. Still - Colin couldn't say he preferred Abuse's form for daily life.

Colin scooped up his shirt as he and Mar'i grabbed the motorcycle again. They needed to hide it. He started when he saw black shapes scrabbling atop his tool bag. It had taken a lot of searching, scrounging, and stealing from henchmen to assemble all his tools. Now, a crow sat on his bag, pulling at the drawstring with its beak. Its claws dented the material.

 _They're watching,_  Colin thought.  _They're watching._

"Stop it!" Colin yanked his shirt on. "Leave my bag alone!"

The crow did not listen. It yanked at the drawstring again. A blast of maroon energy hit the mini fridge behind it, denting the fridge and sending sparks flying. The crow cawed in alarm. It flew away. Several singed black feathers fell in its wake.

"Everything understands starbolts," Mar'i said, flexing her cooling hand. "Even Earth's weird animals."

"Thanks," Colin said. He hurried to scoop up his tool bag. The sensation of being watched lay thick on his skin again.  _We need to leave._  "That was really cool. You looked just like Starfire."

Mar'i stilled.

"Do you mean Koriand'r?" she said.

"I think so." Colin hefted the bag over his shoulder. "That was a compliment."

Mar'i hummed. It was not a noise Colin knew how to interpret. Mar'i usually said what she wanted to say. He could not see her face. Curiosity got the best of Colin.

"Do many Tamaraneans fire starbolts?" he said.

"No," Mar'i said. "Koriand'r was the first."

"Did she teach you?"

Mar'i rolled the motorcycle into its usual hidey-hole in the dump behind two broken trucks. She pulled a tarp over the bike to hide it. Colin smelled burning fabric. When Mar'i released the tarp, he saw her fingerprints burnt into the material. Mar'i's expression was full of intense focus and consideration Colin had not seen before. She did not look at him.

"Koriand'r did not teach me anything," Mar'i said. "I don't care about her. I do not look up to her. I never want to meet her."

"Okay," Colin said. "I won't bring her up again. Promise."

He suddenly felt guilty. Mar'i looked a lot like she had when he had found her, but there was terrible new feeling in her expression.  _I don't want to poke that,_  Colin thought.  _It's better not to talk about bad stuff that happened to you. Especially not if someone might be listening._

Mar'i's face lightened when Colin dug a green bandaid out of his bag. He offered it to her. Colin fought off the worry of being watched growing inside him.

"For your arm," Colin said.

"It is the color of my eyes," Mar'i observed, pasting the bandaid over her cut. "That's cool."

"Yeah, it is. I'm glad you think it's neat."

Colin looked at the six-foot stretch of Tamaranean standing next to him in all her thirteen-year-old glory. _I hope she stays my friend,_  he thought.  _I hope she doesn't leave like everyone else._

Mar'i threw the bandaid wrapper onto the ground. She huffed and crossed her arms. Both she and Colin gazed at the covered motorcycle's form. The crows from earlier circled above them again, cawing with new disapproval. None of them drew close.

"Koriand'r got one thing right," Mar'i said. "Starfire is not a bad Earth name. 'Star' and 'fire' are both good for a Tamaranean."

"It sounds kinda like spitfire," Colin said.

"Spitfire," Mar'i said. She rubbed her bandaid with her thumb. "It means… having a temper, doesn't it?"

"Pretty much," Colin said. "You call people that when they have a temper and they're not afraid to tell you about it. It's a little dangerous."

"So are we." Mar'i glanced at Colin. "So is the motorcycle."

Colin made a decision.

"Our motorcycle," he said.

Mar'i smiled. "Our motorcycle."

"So is that the name? Spitfire?"

"Yes." Mar'i took a determined stance. "And it is a far better name than Starfire."

"Hell yeah it is."

They would need to work on the motorcycle later. Colin was unsure how he would change the shocks out, or fix all of the problems they had both found and caused. But the race wasn't for another week and a half. They had accomplished so much so far. Mar'i had picked up riding a motorcycle easily. There were plenty of places to scavenge parts from. Colin was doing better at mechanic work than he expected. They could do this.

"Let's go," Colin said.

"You are not going to work on Spitfire?" Mar'i said.

Colin felt the gazes on them intensify.

"I'll do that later," Colin said. "Let's go get some Batburger."

Mar'i did not need to be told that twice. She and Colin left the dump covered in oil and blood.

* * *

* * *

"We should have confronted them."

"There's a reason we didn't do that," Red Robin said, still looking queasy from the teleportation.

Suren scowled. Unused magic flowed through his body, making him restless. The Tamaranean and Colin Wilkes had disappeared. He did not understand why Red Robin had kept them from attacking while the space demon and her friend were distracted. They had been evenly matched. Now here he and Red Robin were, standing in the middle of the biggest dump of material Suren had ever seen in his life.

"Why not?" Suren shoved away the car door they had hid behind. "We had the advantage! We could have taken them. Surely you have that much confidence in yourself."

"Going in swinging isn't always the best solution, Suren." Red Robin lifted the tarp on the mutant motorcycle. He brought his phone up, taking pictures. "Hm. Oracle will be interested in some of this tech. I'm genuinely surprised it hasn't exploded yet."

"Maybe it would be better if it did," Suren muttered, imagining Colin Wilkes and the Tamaranean disappearing in a comical spray of fire and trash.

"What was that?"

"Something you would not approve of." Suren kicked at a crunched can. The modern world was so… wasteful.

Red Robin snorted.

"What is your plan, then?" Suren said. "If we are going to let both of those rouges go free, I know you must have something else in mind."

Red Robin did foolish things sometimes, but he wasn't stupid. Even if his pragmatism got on Suren's nerves at times.  _Damian and Maya would have helped me attack the Tamaranean,_ Suren thought.  _It is sad they are not here._

After he finished taking another photo, Red Robin straightened up. He let the tarp fall back over the motorcycle. His black hair threatened to flop into his face.

"We're going to track them," Red Robin said. "You read the flyer. There are going to be plenty of rouges present at the race. Maybe Colin Wilkes and Mar'i need monitoring, but aside from that run-in with you and a few questionable swings at vigilantism, they haven't hurt anyone innocent. The type of people who are going to show up at that race, however, are a different story."

Suren restrained his impatience and frustration.

"You are suggesting that we should set an ambush at the end of the race," he said. "You wish to capture multiple people at once."

"Exactly." Red Robin gave a stupid grin at odds with his dour costume. "Great minds think alike."

 _There is only one great mind here,_  Suren thought.  _I do not know if it is you._  But he was not certain if it was him, either, so he did not say anything. He stepped on a window pane, grinding his heel into the broken glass until it turned to powder. This made sense. But he did not like it. Suren had one mission, and it did not involve the rest of Gotham's dregs.

He supposed this was what heroes were for.

Unfortunately.

"If you are going to this ridiculous race, so I am," Suren said.  _I will not be left behind, Red Robin._

Red Robin slipped his phone back into his pocket. A murder of crows sulked on the heap of trash next to them, listening to them scheme. Suren was tempted to blast one. Birds could have masters. They were not to be trusted. Colin Wilkes had been right to look at them with suspicion.

"Fine," Red Robin said. "But we'll have to set some mission goals and rules beforehand, and you'll need a crash course in riding a motorcycle first."

Suren thought of the Tamaranean plummeting from the sky with her monstrous vehicle in tow. His heart sank. What did that phrase mean?

"A crash course?" Suren said.

"Maybe that wasn't the best choice of words," Red Robin said. "Don't worry. A crash course is just a quick, intense lesson. If we're lucky, there won't be any crashing."

Suren had his doubts.

* * *

* * *

Crime Alley fell dark faster than the rest of Gotham. As the sun set, the rest of the city lit up with a swarm of neon displays, spotlights, fountain lights, and hundreds of glowing office windows. This part of Gotham, with its ill-lit streets, sank softly into the night instead.

Crime Alley did not have consistent sources of illumination. Old street lights that hadn't been busted cast buttery circles of light on street segments. Some new streetlights on Park Avenue - courtesy of Bruce Wayne - made it the brightest place for five blocks around. Many more parts of the area remained in darkness.

Park Avenue and Rosemary Street, Colin knew, got the most light. People not from Crime Alley visited there sometimes, so they had to. Everywhere else fended for itself.

Outside of Park and Rosemary, pawn shops with bars across their windows left their backroom lights on. So did several restaurants and 24 hour laundromats. They formed small bright places when there was nothing. Bar fronts shone with flickering beer advertisements that had not been changed since twenty years ago.

Apartment windows shone too, putting out-of-reach squares of light in the alleys. Sometimes music echoed out of them. It made the ghostly lines of laundry hanging above look less spooky.  _It's hard to be scared when someone is playing jazz,_  Colin thought,  _or one of those old Spanish singers that wails a lot._  His favorite parts of Crime Alley were those windows.

Aside from the passing headlights of cars, other streets had nothing. Colin knew all about hiding behind dumpsters in the pitch night, listening to rats scurrying and people muttering. He had been scared of the dark before. He wasn't now. He didn't have a choice about that. Sometimes Abuse had to hide in dark places to get the information he needed. So did Colin.

The unlit alleys here had treated him better than many people had.

"Colin," Mar'i said.

"Yeah?"

Colin looked up from one of motorcycle magazines he had pilfered from a garage. It was night, now, and the apartment blinds were drawn. Greasey Batburger bags lay crumpled on the floor. One stray fry did too. A Batgirl figurine had joined Robin on the desk. Their plastic arms were raised at Rory the teddy bear in reverence. Mom's photo did not seem to approve. The apartment smelled of motorcycle oil and burger grease.

Several feet away, Mar'i sat in front of the busted TV, her attention fixed on the black and white movie playing. Cowboys and Indians ran across the screen. Colin mentally thanked the apartment across the alley for having electricity he could mooch off of.  _Extension cords are the best,_  he thought.  _I hope no one unplugs it again._

"Is 'howdy' an Earth greeting? I have not heard anyone use it before," Mar'i said.

Mar'i's orange skin looked warmer in the apartment light. She had her legs crossed in front of her and her palms braced behind her. Her sweater sleeves were rolled up. The green bandaid crinkled on her arm. Colin was surprised her stomach wound was okay after her wipeout.

"Yeah," Colin said. "It's like hi. But for cowboys."

Mar'i narrowed her eyes. "Hm. I will keep that in mind." She reclined on the busted mattress as John Wayne raced across the screen, followed by a rain of arrows. Her expression did not change. Her torn Tamaranean uniform lay in a glimmery pile of purple next to her. Every now and then, she glanced at it.

Colin understood. He was desperately trying not to look at the torn trench coat hanging on the chair next to him. It did not fit Abuse anymore. The last time Colin had put it on three days ago, a new rung on Abuse's spine had ripped it open. The trench coat had been too small.

Or was he getting too big?

"I have some needle and thread," Colin said, "if you wanna try fixing your clothes. I'm not good at sewing though."

"I will fix it later," Mar'i said.

John Wayne yelled and shot a few more people. The many horses in the movie whinnied. Mar'i made a gun shape with her hand. The next time John Wayne was on the screen, she lazily raised her finger gun at Colin, miming a shot.

"Bam," Mar'i said, unblinking. "You are dead."

Colin groaned. "Ouch."

He clutched his chest and pretended to fall over on his pile of blankets. Mar'i gave him a fleeting smile.

"Why are you smiling? You exploded my head," Colin said. "My brains are splattered on the wall like a pink slushie. It's gnarly."

"If you were Abuse, would a real shot to the head kill you?" Mar'i said.

Colin sat up. He toyed with his magazine. He remembered Scarecrow's breathless excitement when the needles had finished shooting Venom and Titan into him. He remembered a gnarled, twisting hand that didn't look like his reaching out from him.

 _The world has never seen anything such as you before,_  Scarecrow said.

"I'm not sure," Colin said. "I don't wanna know."

"But it might not kill you," Mar'i said.

"Maybe."

The cowboy movie faded to commercials. Mar'i gave the TV screen a disappointed look. She drew her shoulders closer to herself when an infomercial came on, showing a happy family playing on a green lawn. Colin wanted to throw something at the screen. Instead of a chair, he threw a crumpled Batburger bag.

 _Screw off,_  Colin thought.

"This world is so small," Mar'i said. "All of you are tiny and quiet. I feel too big for this place."

"You're not, trust me," Colin said. "And you say that a lot. Humans aren't - twigs, or something. We're tough."

Mar'i twisted around on the mattress to face him. Colin made eye contact with her. The room felt very small and she felt very close, even if she wasn't sitting next to him.

"Why do you like being small?" Mar'i said. "Abuse is fine. I like him. You do not have to be scared of being big."

Colin thought of the fear on henchman's faces when they saw him. The confusion with it. The hesitation to call him 'human' before they got a better look at Abuse's gnarled, blurry face that was steadily growing more gnarled and blurry.

The same fear on his second foster family's faces when he had heard scratching in the house walls and lashed out.

"I'm not scared," Colin said. He looked away from Mar'i's face and focused on her neck.

Apprehension took over Mar'i's expression.

"You are," she said.

"I'm not!"

Colin struggled to keep his voice lower. He shoved away the magazine before he could tear a page out of it on accident. Abuse squirmed inside of him. His skin felt melty.  _No, no, no,_  Colin thought. He put a hand to his arm and was glad his palm didn't come away sticky.

What if someone was watching them? What if someone saw this? Mar'i was tense. Colin flung the fry on the floor at her before she could speak. It missed Mar'i's face, hitting her side instead.

"You don't know anything about people," Colin said. "Don't ask me shit about this again. Okay?"

"Okay," Mar'i said.

In their silence, the commercials ended. The western's sounds of shooting and yelling filtered through the TV's terrible speakers. A car alarm went off outside, far away. Mar'i turned back to watch the TV. Colin took a deep breath. He hoped she didn't see it.

"I think you are a good human," Mar'i said, eyes on the television screen.

Without warning Colin's nose felt runny.

"You're a good Tamaranean." Colin cleared his throat. "I don't know any others besides you. But yeah. You're… pretty cool."

"Thank you." Mar'i absently wound her fingers together. She watched as John Wayne's party took an Indian hostage, chaining his hands and marching him into a cell. Colin did not think she heard his sniff.

Colin turned in early before the mixed up warm feeling in his chest or the static in his head made him say something stupid.

* * *

Waking up at 3 AM wasn't fun, but it wasn't new to Colin. The awful weight on every speck of him wasn't new either.

His nightmare was over. The lights were out. Mar'i was snored. Colin lay in his rat's nest of blankets, staring at the ceiling. After his dream, he could not sleep anymore. Rory was tucked under his elbow. Teddy bears were supposed to keep bad things away. Rory's presence didn't keep Colin from thinking about Zsasz's collar on his neck, or Robin's look of disgust.

 _I don't wanna be watched anymore,_  Colin thought.  _I'm not an animal._

At night, the sludge in his thoughts crawled out. It seemed less restrained. Colin didn't know what it was. He didn't know why it was. It whispered to him about the Someones watching and the people putting drugs in his food. Colin didn't know how to reply to it. That seemed… wrong, but it also seemed very right. He stared a cockroach walking across the ceiling.

Colin did not think Scarecrow had put this inside of him. The sludge had been a kernel inside of him before, Colin decided, even at the orphanage. Even at all his foster homes. He didn't remember when the sludge had shown up. But it was there. It was a dark kernel of something he didn't understand, and after Scarecrow, it had grown. Colin didn't recognize or trust his own body half the time now. The murmurs in his mind clung to that.

The sludge covered Colin's insides like a suffocating blanket he could not shake off. It made the world scarier; nosier. Something was in Colin, and he didn't know what.

Colin squeezed Rory closer. His breathing didn't sound funny. Should it have sounded funny? He didn't know. He didn't know what he was supposed to think or feel. The whispers threatened to spread inside him. As Colin laid there on the floor five feet from Mar'i, he felt like the loneliest person on Earth, but not alone at all.

It was terrible.

Colin sat up.  _I'm going to throw the trench coat away,_  he thought.  _I'm going to pretend it didn't tear. I don't need it. I'll figure something else out._

Maybe if he did something, the buzzing voices in his head would go away. They had to. Since he couldn't work on the bike, he would walk out to the dumpster. That sounded like a good idea. Colin tucked Rory in beneath a blanket. He jumped when Mar'i cursed. Abuse threatened to twist free. Colin whirled around, fists up.

Mar'i was not awake. Three seconds of looking at her told Colin that. She lay on the mattress, squirming. Her breath came in short huffs. Her eyebrows knitted together in pain. Sweat trickled down her face. Colin stepped closer as she cursed in Tamaranean again. Mar'i's oath was slurred.

"Mar'i?" Colin said.

Mar'i rolled over, whimpering. Her leg kicked. She curled into a ball.

"Livan'i," Mar'i muttered. She said something in Tamaranean that sounded a lot like 'help me.'

 _Oh,_ Colin thought.  _She's having a nightmare._

The only thing worse than having a nightmare was someone watching you have a nightmare. Colin withdrew as Mar'i spasmed again. He waited until she was calm before he groped around for the torn trench coat.

Mar'i was honest, nice, and strong, and she had been through a lot. He liked Mar'i. He wasn't going to embarrass her by telling her he had seen her nightmare, Colin decided. She didn't deserve that. Especially not as the only friend he had. This was the best protection he could give her.

 _I'm not going to let bad things happen again,_  Colin thought, clutching Rory and watching Mar'i uneasily sleep.  _To either of us. I promise._

The voices stuck around.

Colin went to sleep restlessly hours later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Suren is in for a fun time.  
> 2) Colin is implied to suffer from mental illness, but it's never addressed while we see him. That will not be the case here.  
> 3) Expect one more character chapter before we reach the action.


	10. Lose Lose Lose

To Suren, the indoor training circuit below Wayne Manor was, like the rest of the Batcave, interesting but profoundly unnatural. It was a slick black oval of road with lights running along the edges and bent chain-link fence trimming the rim. It smelled of damp smoke. Oil. Suren heard his footsteps echo when he stepped foot onto the track.

“Master Timothy, Master Darga, wear your helmets,” Alfred said. The head servant  was standing among the few seats on the side of the track, nervous.

“Don’t worry, Alfred,” Red Robin called. Suren heard him clattering around a backroom. Soon, Red Robin emerged from the shadows with a helmet and a motorcycle. Its tires crunched softly over the track. “We’ll be careful.”

“I should hope so,” Alfred said. “The last time you were ‘careful,’ Master Dick removed half the skin from his left leg attempting to practice a stoppie, or whatever he called it - and then you removed half the skin from your  _ other _ leg attempting the same thing.”

Red Robin’s cheeks reddened. Suren pulled his helmet on.

“I wasn’t practicing a stoppie, Alfred,” Red Robin said. “I was practicing a slide. It’s going to be much calmer today. I’m not turning Suren into mulch.”

“You had better not,” Suren said.

“Tim watched Akira a time too many and then ate pavement trying to be cool. That’s what he means.”

Batgirl’s voice echoed from the back of the room. The door to the race track closed. Suren blinked when he saw both Batgirl and Black Bat sauntering to the front of the room to join Alfred. Neither of them were in uniform. Both wore jeans and tshirts. Black Bat was in a yellow shirt two sizes too big for her that read ‘I BEAT THE TWO-FACE SPICY WING CHALLENGE.’ The grin on Batgirl’s face did not bode well.

“I don’t think three people are needed to teach Suren how to ride a bike,” Red Robin said.

“I’m not here for assistance,” Batgirl said. She put her hands on her hips, surveying the track. “Cass and I came to spectate. I’ve never seen you teach before, Tim.”

Black Bat smiled at them. Her expression was too much like Batgirl’s. 

“Go, Suren, go!” she said.

Suren was grateful for his tinted helmet visor. He did know what face he had just made. He was extra grateful that neither Red Robin nor Batgirl had seen it. Red Robin twirled his motorcycle keys.

“Master Cassandra,” Alfred said, looking at Black Bat’s outfit, “don’t you think that Master Duke deserves his shirt back soon?”

“My shirt now,” Black Bat said.

“Okay.” Red Robin looked to Suren. “No pressure. We’ll start with getting the bike in gear and turning it on. Sound good?”

Suren assessed the black motorcycle in front of him. Its wheels came up to his knees. The handlebars were level with his breast. The bike weighed at least three times more than he did. It was a heavy mass of obsidian metal, buttons, and cranks, none of which Suren understood. Everyone was watching him.

_ I have ridden a giant flying demon, _ Suren thought.  _ This mortal-made abomination cannot be worse. _

“It sounds tolerable,” Suren said.

He scrambled onto the motorcycle.

* * *

“Repeat it to me again.”

“Make sure the kill switch is set to ‘run.’ The bike will be in neutral. You need to hit the start switch. When you hear the bike starting, let off the switch. Hold the clutch. Give the motorcycle gas. Once it’s started, you’ll shift into first, and then you’ll be on your way.” Red Robin gripped the handlebars from the side so Suren and the bike would not fall over. “Remember, if you don’t twist the throttle enough, it will stall out. The bike needs to warm up. Don’t give it too much gas either. That’ll flood the engine. Make use of the clutch.”

Suren wanted to rub his temples.

“Suren!” Batgirl yelled. “If he’s being confusing, don’t listen to him! Just hold the clutch and gas it. Click into first and release the clutch when you feel it lurch!”

Red Robin tilted his head back. “I thought you weren’t teaching, Steph!”

“Yeah, but you’re doing a bad job,” Batgirl said.

“Unbelievable,” Red Robin said.

Suren gripped the throttle again. The glowing dashboard in front of him swam with unfamiliar symbols. He scowled, then inhaled. This was not hard. If Damian could do it, so could he. His role in the mission depended on him learning this. Batgirl and Red Robin continued bantering.

_ Surely you will not fail on this mundane a task, _ Father’s voice said.

“I can do this,” Suren said.

He turned the key again. The motorcycle rumbled to life. Suren squeezed the clutch and turned the throttle. The motorcycle rumbled beneath him. Its exhaust pipe spat smoke as its engine moaned and spluttered. It rumbled, a moaning monster.

“Okay,” Red Robin said, “good.” He inched away from the motorcycle as Suren’s foot tapped on the shifter. “Now you just have to shift into first.”

“I know.” Suren scowled.  _ I am pushing down. Why is this pedal not working?  _ He wrung the throttle, feeding the motorcycle’s spluttering scream.  _ I will not be bested by this lump of terrestrial metal.  _ “The shifter is not - ”

Click. The motorcycle shot forward. Suren screamed.

* * *

“That was an impressive crash for a first time,” Batgirl said. “The fact you almost ran over Tim in the first ten seconds is also impressive. But you didn’t break a tooth again, and you used the brake correctly.  So that’s a victory.”

“You did well, Suren. Really. Motorcycles are hard.”

“Shut up, Timothy,” Suren said.

Batgirl laughed. Alfred looked ill at ease with all of their proceedings. Black Bat shook her head. Everyone except Alfred was on the track now, standing next to Red Robin, Suren, and the cursed motorcycle, which had been set back up on its kickstand after its untimely crash. 

The motorcycle’s paint bore a few new scratches where it had slid across the ground. Otherwise, it was fine. Suren wished it would explode.

“I believe I will check the infirmary’s stock again,” Alfred said, “just in case.”

“Smart,” Black Bat said.

Suren dug his claws into his arms, biting his tongue. His knee was raw beneath his pant leg. He was fine otherwise. Red Robin had given him a thorough check up after the accident. The only things injured were his pride and peace of mind.

Batgirl flicked her thumb across her phone. Red Robin narrowed his eyes. The dark bags beneath them crinkled.

“Do not tell Cassie or Conner about this,” Red Robin said. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“It would be a shame if I did,” Batgirl said, her gaze on her phone.

Red Robin groaned. “Steph. C’mon.”

“That was an impressive jump.” A smile tugged at Batgirl’s mouth. “Don’t worry. I didn’t record it. I would’ve if it were Damian.”

“Thanks for the small mercy.”

Suren did not know if this exchange was flirting or comradery but he did not care for it.  _ I do not want this lesson to be longer than it has to be,  _ Suren thought. He straightened up when he saw Black Bat pulling away from the track to join Alfred.

“You are leaving?”

“Yes,” Black Bat said. “I have patrol later.” She smiled at him. “You’ll get it.”

That did not help. Suren’s motorcycle helmet pressed against his face, further flustering him. Suren felt like a piece of hot copper being squeezed between tongs. Was this the sole detail Black Bat would remember? Him screaming and floundering? Black Bat’s smile said ‘maybe.’ Intentional or not, she had only stuck around to see him fail.

_ This is unfair! _ Suren’s mind shouted at him.  _ This is unfair! _

“I may kill Red Robin first,” Suren said.

“Please do not,” Alfred said.

Black Bat pointed at Suren. “Be good.” 

“I despise every one of you,” Suren grumbled, hunching his shoulders as Black Bat skipped away. He knew he could not hurt them now, even if he wanted to.

“‘Scuse me?” Batgirl said. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I said I hate motorcycles,” Suren said.

Red Robin patted the bike. Its fresh scratches gleamed. There was amusement in his expression, but not for the first time, Suren saw exhaustion beneath it. A faint memory of his first cousin Sumayya smiling at him during  عيد الفطر  surfaced.  _ Their expressions are the same, _ Suren realized.  _ Were. Why have I never compared them before? _

“Everyone needs practice,” Red Robin said. “Wanna try again?”

Suren wanted to bristle. The memory of cousin Sumayya stayed his hand. Besides, he was here to learn. Suren braced himself.

“Yes,” he said.

“You’ll do fine,” Batgirl said. “You made it into first. That’s the hard part.”

Somehow, that was comforting.  Suren pulled his helmet visor back down as Batgirl hopped back into the sidelines. Red Robin grabbed the motorcycle’s handlebars and kicked away the kickstand. Dread lapped at Suren’s heart as he clambered back onto the massive motorcycle. Determination eclipsed it.

“Ready?” Red Robin said.

_ His tiredness seems part of him,  _ Suren thought. That was the main similarity between Red Robin and Sumayya. They had nothing else in common. _ Mystery solved. _

_ Are you comparing your family to mortal waste, now? _ Father’s voice murmured.  _ You - _

Suren turned on the bike, held the clutch, and twisted the throttle. The bike howled, scrambling Father’s voice into nothing.

“Yes,” Suren said.

* * *

When any of the Bats said they were going to train, they meant it. It reminded Suren of his lessons at the Lu’un Darga stronghold and the gauntlets his relatives had put each other through. It was strenuous, but it lacked the tension and danger that had come with training with Father. Suren found he could deal with it. It was an extended version of the sparring sessions he and Batgirl cycled through.

But it was thorough. Red Robin was a perfectionist.  The ceiling lights stared down on him, Suren, and Batgirl, unchanging electric suns as the hours slipped on. Suren stalled out the motorcycle several more times. When he got it to run, he inched it in slow laps around the circuit. Batgirl and Red Robin coached him until Batgirl left for lunch.

The ordeal was tiring. Trying. Suren crashed the bike fall several more times. Most of them were hard on the motorcycle, not him. If he sensed it was tipping over, Suren leapt on top of the motorcycle so it would hit the ground, not him. That granted him an amount of vindictive satisfaction. This was successful until Red Robin pointed out that crashing was not good for the bike.

“And?” Suren said.

“The bike is important and expensive, Suren.”

“It is too big for me. It is also terrible.”

“I know,” Red Robin said. “But it’s your only option. We’re not taking the Batmobile to a street race. You can catch it and yourself if you’re careful.”

Suren pursed his lips in consideration. “Hm. I suppose you are right.”

Surprise crossed Red Robin’s face. Suren wasn’t sure of the other feeling. Gratitude?

“What?” he said.

“You’re less argumentative than Damian,” Red Robin said. “It’s a nice change.”

Suren shrugged. His right palm burned with an imprint of the throttle. His knee stung. His hair was being eaten by the helmet. He was tired, but not yet defeated.

“Damian thinks he knows everything,” Suren said. “I do not. I know plenty. But not everything.”

“Me too, kid.”

After a moment, Red Robin released one of the bike’s handlebars. He popped out the motorcycle’s kickstand. Suren lightened with relief.

“We should take a break,” Red Robin said. “It’s lunch.”

_ I think it is past lunch, _ Suren thought. But in the Batcave, he could never be sure of time. He worked the helmet off of his head one inch at a time. It did not want to come off.

“Hey, boys,” Batgirl said, entering the room with a filled plastic bag in one hand and a take-out cup in another. “Are you still going at it? Has Suren done a wheelie yet?”

Suren popped the helmet off his head with a gasp. “No.”

“Suren!” Batgirl covered her face. “Oh, my god. Your hair.”

“I feel like I am one of the cat’s clawed-up toys,” Suren said. He tried to pat down his mess of curls. They frizzed around his face. Sweat beaded his hairline.

“You should have pulled your hair up.” Batgirl dug a band out of her pocket. “Here.” She flicked it at Suren. He caught it.

“Thank you,” Suren said.

“You’re welcome.”

Red Robin looked content.

* * *

Suren retreated upstairs to secure some of Alfred’s pot roast. After scarfing down two plates of it, he returned to the Batcave. Suren loathed the idea of entering the race track right away. He killed time by meandering through the lair’s exhibits. The dinosaur was no longer new, but other objects were. He looked at his reflection in the giant penny and perused the rows and rows of evidence in cases.

The uniform displays were large. Suren leaned in towards the burnt Robin uniform in a case. It was meant for a bigger person than him, but not by much. It was mostly taller than him. Some of the suit’s buttons were melted. The cape bottom was discolored. Unbidden, Suren smelled burning flesh. He waved it away. 

It was not too surprising that some of the Robins had died. It was expected. Suren vaguely recalled Damian saying something about his mother and the Lazarus Pit. He did not remember the details. He shuddered at the thought of a non-Darga sliding their soul into the Pit.

_ That is ours, _ he thought.  _ It is not meant for others. I do not want to hear more strangers’ voices in the Pit. _

A Batman suit stood in the case nearby. Suren glanced at it. The lack of patterns and flair disinterested him. It had so little to say. A Batman suit was a Batman suit. He moved on.

The purple Batgirl suit with patched tears on the back made him pause.

_ Interesting, _ Suren thought.

Before Red Robin or Batgirl arrived, he went to see the other motorcycles. Suren wanted to better assess the evil creations after fighting with one for a few hours. The motorcycles - which were parked in little lots off the track - were sleek, shiny beasts made of wheels and jumbles of metal. They were confusing, but not as confusing as the death trap that Colin Wilkes and the Tamaranean had made. That was a relief.

Suren gave the motorcycles a suspicious glare. They were not alive. They were not even enchanted beyond a spell that made them consume gasoline. He did not trust them nonetheless. It felt wrong to turn his back to them.

_ They and parts of this world do not look like people made them, _ Suren decided.  _ That is the problem.  _

He lingered by the motorcycles to pull his hair up with Batgirl’s elastic. Suren stared into a motorcycle windshield. His faint reflection stared back. Asphalt and electric lights were fine. Suren found them uninteresting now. But some of the buildings in Gotham - and everywhere else - unnerved him. 

In his Lebanon, the Lu’un Darga stronghold was a work of art. It was a work of people. Suren knew that every cornerstone, window, and trim in his family’s fortress had been carved, measured, and placed by hand. Architecture was a craft that took decades to master. The Darga family home was a testament to the skills of many, many craftsmen. Suren sensed their fingerprints everywhere.

Buildings in downtown Gotham did not feel crafted. The skyscrapers were behemoths of steel and glass that raked the sky. Spotlights and screens filled their roofs. Bolts the size of Suren’s fist held their supports together. Machines with mortals in them crawled up the skyscrapers’ walls to clean them, and machines with mortals in them built them, too. 

Everything was too big. When Suren looked at skyscrapers, he sensed no craftsmen’s hands on them. He sensed no soul in them. Skyscrapers looked like fancy boxes. Worse: they looked like traps.  _ Unfortunately, _ Suren thought,  _ Father was right. Mortals here do look like bugs when hundreds of them crawl behind a wall of windows. _

_ I am always right,  _ Father’s voice said.

Suren had shrank in his seat the first time he saw a skyscraper. Damian and Maya had looked unimpressed. They had not even glanced at the buildings around them. Suren couldn’t understand why. Their city was a collection of giant caddis fly cases. How could people live in these cold, stacked buildings? Nothing here looked made for or by mortals. Everything felt foreign. Unwelcoming.

The older parts of Gotham with gargoyles and brick buildings were much better. Suren felt more comfortable around them. Maybe this was why Red Hood stayed in Crime Alley. It was to be away from… that.

He turned away from the motorcycles when he heard Red Robin returning.

* * *

When Suren made it around his first lap without crashing or wobbling, he clambered down from the bike with victorious caution. Feeling the world go around in smooth circles while the motorcycle purred beneath him was engaging. Suren’s skinned knee kept him from calling it fun. It still made his heart race.

“This is worse than Goliath, but much better than horses,” Suren said. 

“I thought you said you hated it.” Red Robin collected the motorcycle’s keys.

“Am I not allowed to change my mind?”

“I suppose you are,” Red Robin said. He rolled the silent bike towards the lot with its brethren.

Suren stretched. His wrists hurt from clutching the bike’s handlebars. His hair remained a disaster. Batgirl’s elastic was buried somewhere in it. Suren didn’t believe the next session would be shorter. 

_ Colin Wilkes and the Tamaranean jumped their motorcycle over a small mountain, _ he thought.  _ They are freaks of nature. They are also ahead of me. I doubt Red Robin will allow me to quit lessons before I am a bit better. _ The race’s other contestants would not be learners either.

Which raised a question. Suren frowned. “Red Robin. Are we going to be prepared for the race?”

“We should be,” Red Robin said. He weaseled out from between two tightly parked motorcycles. “I’ll be driving, not you. And we’ll have back-up along.”

“Weapons or people?”

“The former,” Red Robin said. “We’ll have grappling hooks. A few Batarangs. Smoke Bombs. An EMP. You’ll have your sword. I’ll my staff. People-wise, I have someone on speed-dial if we need him. We’ll need to be prepared - per always. But this is doable.”

The only other motorcycle-riding Wayne Al Ghul that anyone had mentioned more than once - besides Damian or Batman - was Nightwing.  _ He is likely the back-up, _ Suren thought. He recognized everything except the acronym Red Robin had used.

“I do not know what an EMP is."

“EMP stands for electromagnetic pulse.” Red Robin pushed his black hair back. “It’s a short burst of energy that interferes with electronics. People have weaponized it. Think of it as insurance.”

“It is a blackout spell.” Suren filled with realization. “You use it in order to cut off the electronic magic in items. It kills them. This is a trick.”

“It temporarily kills them,” Red Robin corrected.

“Cheating is dishonorable.” 

Their boots clunked against the pavement stairs as the two of them left the race track. Red Robin flicked the main lights off behind them. The track dimmed. Suren took in the shadowy rows of stairs, the few seats, and the liquid black track. The room’s unnatural air was gone. Suren and Red Roblin slipped into the Batcave hall outside of it.

“Perhaps so,” Red Robin said. “But honor doesn’t always get the proper results.”

What an Al Ghul thing to say. Suren missed Damian so much it hurt. He missed Maya, too. His cell phone lay dormant, and for once, he wished the awful machine would buzz with a message from them. But it had not come. Suren had checked many times.

Red Robin had friends. (Sumayya had, too. Somehow). Suren did not know why he spent half time in and out of the manor. He did not understand many aspects of this situation.

_ ‘I do not like Drake,’ _ Damian had said.  _ ‘He does not like me.’ _

“I do not understand why you and Damian do not get along,” Suren said. “You have plenty in common.” 

The ease slipped from Red Robin’s face.

“It’s complicated,” he said.

“Why?”

“Family is complicated, Suren. You’re aware of that.”

Red Robin stayed a step ahead of Suren, never giving him all of his attention at once. He kept his thumbs tucked into the belt loops of his pants. Suren had to admit that he was right. Family was never a straightforward excuse for loving anyone. It was a complicated, sprawling thing full of power, pain, and duty. No matter how much love Suren carried for recognizable Pit whispers, he could not deny that.

What came to his mouth instead was:

“You should at least mock him for his taste in exercise music.”

Suren yanked Batgirl’s elastic out of his hair, eyes watering. Red Robin gave him an odd look. They slipped past the bookcase that covered the secret entrance, making their way towards fresh air.

“One, I don’t live here most of the time. Two, Damian is very secretive about his taste in exercise music,” Red Robin said.

Suren snorted. “No he isn’t. “He plays لمعلم  on a loop when he is exercising. He sings it to himself when he believes no one is listening. He is a terrible singer.”

Maya believed the same thing, so he was in the right. Clearly. Red Robin laughed, startled.

“I’ll remember that,” he said.

Red Robin checked his phone. Suren glimpsed a screen full of unread messages before Red Robin pressed a thumb down, deleting them.  A hazy memory of doves in a cage came to Suren’s mind.

“I’ll be gone for most of tomorrow,” Red Robin said. “Steph will help you out. Don’t be a goblin to her.”

A lesson with Batgirl would be an event. Either it would be fine, or Suren would want to melt her head again. 

“I make no promises,” Suren said.

“Of course you don’t,” Red Robin said. A hint of warmth lined his words. Suren wasn’t sure if it was really there or not.

They parted ways in the hall.

* * *

While he lay in bed that evening, checking for messages from Damian and Maya again, Suren reconsidered the memory of doves. He mostly reconsidered Sumayya. It felt right to do so when staring at the ceiling. Twilight seeped through his windows. If he listened, Suren could hear crickets among the far-off noises of cars. His helm rested on his desk.

Sumayya had been much older than him. She had been twenty one when Suren was born. It was a struggle to recall details about her. Death and his young age at the time blurred everything.

_ I remember that she was plump. I remember that she bottled small demons, _ Suren thought,  _ and she taught Yaḥyā how to do it. He made a trap out of paper and snagged a little spirit’s foot. It squawked whenever he made it dance. I remember that Sumayya wore green hijabs. I remember that one aunt said she hated figs. I remember that she hated the Al Ghuls less than Yaḥyā did. _

Before Mother had been imprisoned, she had sent many, many messages by bird to Suren’s first cousin. Sumayya had answered nearly none of them. Suren knew that because another cousin had spent years continuing Mother’s task and complaining about Sumayya’s unresponsiveness. He could not remember Sumayya explaining herself before they all died. He did not think she had been able to explain herself to anyone during family gatherings she showed up for.

_ Cousin Sumayya said that if she kept moving, she would run forever, _ Suren thought.  _ She said nothing of what happened when she stopped. I wonder if Red Robin is the same way. _

_ If he is, you will know soon,  _ Father’s voice said. It had been weaker during the motorcycle lesson, but now, it gained strength again.  _ You know what happened to your first cousin. A hanging bed sheet finished her before any Al Ghul could. _

_ Why? _ Suren spread his hands, testing his claws against the comforter beneath him. He did not like any of these thoughts.  _ She was immortal. She had everything to look forward to. We all did, that long ago. Why didn’t we raise her with the Pit? _

_ It is complicated, my lungs. _

Suren was starting to dislike the word ‘complicated’ in any language.

“I am tired of everything being complicated,” he said.

_ You are trying to ally with beings that will rot long before you, _ Father’s voice said.  _ If you wish to court that shame, become used to complications. _

Suren started when he felt goose down. The comforter had a hole in it. He was not sure if he had made it or not. Suren swore. He folded the comforter over to keep feathers from leaking out.

Everything else aside, at least he knew how to ride a motorcycle now. 

Somewhat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned! It took a while, but we're starting to get back on track.  
> 1\. Cass is a clothes thief.  
> 2\. عيد الفطر is Eid al-Fitr. Most of the Dargas were not practicing Muslims, given their own culture and devotion to the Lazarus Pit, but their mortal neighbors influenced them nonetheless.  
> 3\. لمعلم (or LM3ALLEM) is a Moroccan bop. It's very catchy. It's unfortunate that its singer is a terrible person.


	11. When I Was Done Dying

Aside from the motorcycle’s rumbling, everything was much quieter on the second day of driving practice. It was only Suren and Batgirl instead of the previous crowd. Whenever Suren rode the bike around a lap, Batgirl looked like a lonely dot in the middle of the asphalt, a prick of color that came and went. She reminded Suren of the first star to come out at night. 

_ The sky has changed so much since I was in Lebanon, _ Suren thought.  _ I do not know any of the constellations here, and no one draws star maps the same anymore. It has felt like forever since cousin Sumayya was excited about the Samarkand Observatory. I wonder what star-viewing places look like now. _

That was irrelevant today. Batgirl alone on the track reminded Suren of a star, but she was not one. Stars were silent. Batgirl yelled. A lot. Sometimes she yelled criticism and tips, but other times, she just yelled. Suren didn’t know if some of her whoops at his driving were encouraging or mocking.

“How’s it feel to go from horses and flying demons to a bike?” Batgirl said, holding the motorcycle as Suren popped his helmet off. The bike engine radiated heat.

“How do you think it feels?” Suren said.

“Not great.” Batgirl chewed on a wad of green gum, blowing a bubble before popping it. “The way you make turns says you haven’t figured out how they work yet.”

Suren grimaced. “What are you implying?”

“I said what I said,” Batgirl said. “But you’ll get the hang of it. I bet the world is a lot different than how you remember it. Adjusting must be hard. Especially in America.”

“Yes, it is. Adjusting was difficult two months ago too, when that comment would have been relevant.”

“Oh, so you’re talking shit like Damian now?” Batgirl cocked her hip. “It took long enough for your ego to start showing here.”

Suren glared at her. The fact she had lent him a hair tie meant little. “I don’t need to imitate Damian to be rude to you.”

“Y’know, you’re right,” Batgirl said. “You’ve proven that already. But I’m still a better driver than you, pipsqueak.”

Suren jammed his helmet back on. “Not for long.”

Batgirl’s smile had teeth, but it was less forced than it had been a month ago. A bruise from patrolling darkened her brow. Sunglasses perched in her tangled hair. She wore a bloodstained jersey and shredded jean shorts, but both of those were less eye-catching than the line of fresh stitches tracing up her right thigh. 

_ Batgirl, _ Suren thought,  _ is someone who punches you in the face when you look at her. Physically and otherwise. _

“Let’s see you cash those checks your mouth has been writing,” Batgirl said. “But don’t hurt yourself.”

Suren huffed.  _ Stupid mortal, _ he thought. But his irritation warmed him, and as it sat in his chest, it almost felt like encouragement. Batgirl’s judgemental gaze no longer made him want to melt her skull. He twisted the throttle and kicked the bike into first as Batgirl stepped away.

* * *

“Okay, you’re not exactly a valedictorian of Robin’s school of driving,” Batgirl said, “but you’re doing better. You’ll survive the race.”

“I suppose I must thank you,” Suren said.

“Yeah, you should, you brat.”

“Fine. What must I do to live up to your apparent high, high standards, Batgirl?” Suren said. “I seem to be missing something.”

The raw line of stitches on her leg combined with the smell of oil made Suren wrinkle his nose in disgust. He could not imagine bearing a wound to the air here.  _ Disgusting, _ he thought. Batgirl noticed his look. For a moment, she looked ready to punch him.

“If that was a comment on my clothes,” she said, “I’m gonna deck you, whether you’re new to this century or not.”

“It wasn’t.” Suren scowled. “Do you think I would waste our time with that? Your embarrassing attire is your business. I do not understand your attempts to be nice to me. Black Bat and Red Robin are not here. You don’t need to pretend you tolerate me. You are pretending less already.”

Batgirl sighed, but her posture became less aggressive. She looked resigned. ‘Fed up with this shit,’ as she would say. She pushed her river of blond hair behind her shoulders. Suren readied himself for a stream of Father’s comments and Batgirl’s reply.

“Alright,” Batgirl said. “I don’t know if I can trust you yet, Suren. Let’s make that clear.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“But Cass vouched for you. She said you were trying, and I believe her. So I’m going to try and make this less miserable than it needs to be. I don’t… dislike you.”

Batgirl stood nearby. Suren was sitting on the bike. He quietly took in the keys hanging from the motorcycle ignition and Batgirl’s bruises from fighting people all night long. She had come in today to teach him anyway. Batgirl looked like she was trying hard not to speak, but Suren didn’t feel like she was going to insult him.

“What is your advice for making turns?” Suren said.

“You need to turn harder and lean into them more.” Batgirl twisted the motorcycle steering wheel in demonstration. She placed her hands near Suren’s. They did not touch. “You can do it. You’re just not confident enough in yourself. I promise that’s gonna go better than you think it is.”

Batgirl pulled away.

“I will remember that,” Suren said.

* * *

Suren’s stomach felt like it was sliding across the floor in fear when he cut close to the circuit wall. Lights spun above him in a mobius strip. The world was slick and blurry. He made the turn fine.

Batgirl, a dot on the track again, cheered.

* * *

When Suren glided to a stop behind Batgirl, he found himself disappointed that Black Bat and Red Robin were not watching him today. Their faces would have made the empty seats around the circuit more welcoming.  _ I did much better this time, _ Suren thought.  _ This would have impressed them. _

That thought came as a surprise. Suren didn’t know what to do with it. For once, he wanted approval outside of his family. He wanted Black Bat to be proud of him - Batgirl, too, and Red Robin. He did not need it, but he wanted it. It was unnecessary. Suren wasn’t used to this.

_ It’s a useless feeling, _ Father said.  _ You’re useless.  _

Den Darga’s voice grew louder without the motorcycle’s roar to drown it out. He had been squashed down for two days. Now, he returned with a vengeance. Suren yanked off his helmet so its sweaty, tight confines would not hold Father’s words close to his face. 

_ Why do you seek their approval?  _ Father said.  _ Why do you want this whore to be proud of you? They’re all irrelevant. Every day, you move further away from what your mother would have wanted.  _

_ You don’t know what Mother wanted. _ Suren dropped the helmet on the asphalt. Breathing was hard.  _ I want attention from these people, and kind words, and I’m allowed to look for that. _

_ Kind words! By the Pit! Your family needs you, and this how you repay them? By chasing mortal compliments-- _

“Shut UP, Father.” Suren sucked in oily air, desperate to clear his head.

“Excuse me?”

Batgirl stopped a foot away. Worry creased her face. Apprehension, too. She knew she had stepped into something unrelated to her. Suren shook his head. He crushed Den Darga’s voice into the back of his mind.

“It is nothing,” he said.

“It didn’t sound like nothing.”

“I have problems with my father,” Suren said.

Batgirl looked at him like he was crazy before she made the clear decision that she did not care.

“So do half the people in Gotham,” she said. “This is a city full of daddy issues. Welcome to the club. Your old man isn’t… trying to steal your body or something, is he?”

“No. That is an Al Ghul specialty. Damian mostly killed my father.”

“Right.” Batgirl assessed him a last time. “Then you’re going to have to deal with those problems like the rest of us. Sorry, Suren.”

“Great,” Suren said.

Batgirl’s phone pinged twice. She slipped her hand into her pocket without removing it. The expression on her face wasn’t pity, Suren thought, but it was a type of consideration.

“I have to meet up with Signal,” Batgirl said. “If you’re not going to be stabby or condescending, you can come. If you want.”

If he didn’t accompany Batgirl, Suren would be stuck feuding with his father’s voice and wondering where the Tamaranean and Colin Wilkes were. His phone remained silent with its usual lack of new messages.

“I’m not mean to everyone,” Suren said. “I will come.”

Batgirl scooped his helmet off the floor.

“You had better hold onto this, then,” she said.

* * *

Batgirl had her own motorcycle outside of the Batcycle. It was much smaller and older. Rips littered its seat cover, scratches cluttered its lights, and its engine spluttered with less power. It moved more with a hum than a scream. The black and yellow paint streaking its sides had seen better days, but Suren doubted that Batgirl cared much about that.

_ At least it seems more stable than the Tamaranean’s monstrous creation, _ Suren thought.

He sat behind Batgirl as she navigated Gotham traffic. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes puttered along the streets. Vans with advertisements for carpet cleaning spewed noxious fumes at the stoplights alongside motorcycles and sleek, newly painted sports cars that reminded Suren of the Batmobile. He knew little about cars, but he could tell which ones signified status. Traffic was a cacophony of honks and screeching breaks. Exhaust mixed with the wind.

Suren was glad that Batgirl understood all of the traffic signs. Ones beyond “STOP” and city mileage signs eluded him. Thankfully, they did not spend too much time in downtown traffic. Suren exhaled when they left the tunnel of glittering buildings and intersections.

“Where is Red Robin?” Suren said, once they had stopped at a quieter light. “Is he on a mission?”

The race was happening soon. If Red Robin intended to be back in time, he would have to watch himself. A billboard above them advertised The Iceberg Lounge with an image of a sparkly spilling drink and a penguin. Suren looked at his distorted reflection in the back of Batgirl’s helmet.

“Probably,” Batgirl said. “Dick was dropping by the manor today too, so I bet that had something to do with it.”

Ah. Nightwing. Suren knew little about him other than his status as Damian’s favorite brother, his charisma, his temper, and his fame. Maya had once declared that Nightwing was “almost as nosy as Damian, which is an accomplishment.” 

“Let me guess,” Suren said. “It is complicated. The same way things with Damian are complicated.”

“Second verse, same as the first,” Batgirl said. “Get used to hearing that about a lot of things in Batman’s family.”

Suren did not know what that English expression about a “second verse” meant, but the second statement clarified enough.  _ I thought being a Lu’un Darga was complicated,  _ Suren thought,  _ but the Wayne-Al Ghuls are ridiculous. There was never this much arguing about our unity. They will be in trouble if someone takes advantage of this.  _ He gripped Batgirl’s jacket when the light changed. Batgirl steered them onto an exit with less traffic.

“I do not know anything about Nightwing,” Suren muttered into Batgirl’s back, “but Red Robin and Damian need to get over themselves and collaborate already. They both like you. They both plot. They both cause problems. This distance is stupid.”

“Tell me about it,” Batgirl said.

“The Waynes and Al Ghuls share flaws and one withered brain.” 

Steph laughed. “Is one of those flaws liking me?”

A bold question. They slid to a stop at an intersection. Gotham’s towering skyscrapers and gargoyles gave way to lower buildings and lawns. Suren saw the city breaking apart the further they went. When he looked down, he saw Batgirl’s legs, sinewy and scarred in the sun. New gravel scratches and dirt from the drive flecked them. She did not seem to care. For all of Batgirl’s faults, she was not someone who withheld what she believed. She deserved the same courtesy.

“No,” Suren said.

“Huh.”

They plunged further into Gotham’s suburbs.

* * *

Signal looked far too pleasant to be a Wayne-Al Ghul. His tank top was a spotless white with a sunglasses-wearing bird on the breast, and when they parked next to his car, he was reclining in his seat, eyes closed and face turned to the sun. Alfred the cat couldn’t have basked better.

“Oh my god,” Signal said, leaning out of his window. “Did B adopt another one?”

“Close,” Batgirl said. “Duke, this is Suren. He’s one of Damian’s friends. He’s staying with us for now. Suren, this is Duke Thomas. He’s one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet.”

“Jeez, Steph. Try not to set the bar too high right off the bat. It’s nice to meet you, Suren. How do you like the manor?”

“Well enough,” Suren said. “I am grateful for their hospitality. The manor is a beautiful, archaic place, though there are not enough dungeons for my liking.” 

“I think it’s creepy,” Duke said, “but to each their own. You sound like you fit right in.”

“Yeah, he does,” Batgirl said.

While they talked, Duke fished a bouquet of flowers out of his car. Batgirl passed him a twenty dollar bill in exchange for it. The three of them walked out of the parking lot into a fenced-in graveyard. Rows of headstones stretched before them like so many wayward teeth. Grass swayed around them. Suren spotted several mausoleums a hill away, though none of them were as intricate as a Darga tomb. Less fancy tombstones were surrounded by flowers and pinwheels. This graveyard was not one for the forgotten.

“How’s Isabella?” Batgirl said.

“She’s fine,” Duke said. “Community college has her busy. She’s not in the suit as much as she wants to be, but I promised her we’ll get the old We Are Robin gang back together for community service after she graduates. She’s excited about that.”

“B isn’t gonna be happy.”

“Yeah,” Duke said, “but he’s never happy. You’re not a snitch, either.”

“Of course not.”

“Nor am I,” Suren said.

Duke smiled. “Thanks.” He raised his fist. Despite himself, Suren returned the fist bump. The Signal was easy to scrutinize yet difficult to dislike.

After five more minutes of walking, they slowed. Batgirl placed her bouquet of flowers in front of a thick tombstone. Two more bouquets and a framed pair of tickets sat in front of it already. Suren did not understand what their “modern dance” label meant. The tension in Batgirl’s shoulders told him he did not want to know, or get closer. Suren stayed back at the grave before it.

Duke hesitated before joining Batgirl in front of the grave. He slipped Batgirl’s money back into her palm. She curled her fingers around it in a fist.

“I don’t know all of what happened. But it wasn’t your fault,” Duke said.

“I know.” There was broken glass in Batgirl’s voice.

“Yeah,” Duke said. “But I hope you  _ know _ know.”

Batgirl twisted, ready to punch him, but no punch came. Suren glimpsed the name Gavin King engraved on the headstone. Duke, looking ahead into some future, did not flinch. Batgirl exhaled. She bumped her shoulder against Duke instead.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she said. “Really.”

“No problem.”

“Was he a Robin?” Suren said.

Duke looked to Batgirl. Anger kept her from crumpling. Suren thought of the first time he had crawled from the Pit, full of nothing but broken bits and rage that kept them together.

“No,” Batgirl said. “But he fucking mattered. Alright?”

“I believe you.” Suren maintained his distance.  _ How awful mortal death is, _ he thought.

Batgirl huffed. She turned her back to him, quickly. Duke put a hand on her shoulder.

“Steph,” he said.

“You know what makes me mad?” Batgirl said. “What really, really pisses me off?”

Suren listened to the breeze trickle through the grave wind chimes and pinwheels.

“There’s not a single plaque to him in the cave,” Stephanie said. “There’s no case for an Orpheus suit. There was a closed casket funeral. Part of me thinks that he’s out there somewhere, recovering in Kenya or Cambodia. That’s the kind of shit B would orchestrate. But his family is still here. It’s been three years now, and they put flowers out every month. His parents  _ cared. _ Gavin cared about them, too. He wouldn’t leave them on hold for this long while he pretended to be gone. Who the hell would do that to their parents that loved them? What coward would let that happen without someone forcing them into it?” 

Stephanie tilted her head skywards, inhaling.

“So either Gavin is alive and more spineless than the Gavin I knew,” she said, “or he’s gone. Really gone. And Bruce won’t talk about it since paying for the funeral. The same way he won’t talk about what happened to Jason. I’m stuck knowing I’m the last person who talked to Gavin, and what Black Mask did has permanently fucked us both. I don’t wanna lose B or Cass, but if it’s me or Black Mask in an alley one day, I’m going to kill him. Regardless of what they believe about mercy. This is the kind of thing that makes me understand why Jason ripped his casket and Gotham apart after getting back.”

Duke hugged Stephanie with one arm.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Yeah.” Stephanie ground her heel into the grass. “We all are. Black Mask better hope that Hood gets to him before I do.”

Suren had nothing to say when they headed back. Stephanie’s face was dry, but she stalked ahead of him and Duke, leaving them thirty feet behind her. Duke made no attempt to catch up with her. Suren heard the voices of his family in every rustle of grass.

_ How weak mortals are, _ Den Darga’s voice said.  _ How finite. We return to where we are born. We never die. They molder here. _

“Are you okay?” Duke craned his head at Suren.

“Yes,” Suren said. “I did not know him.”

“I figured. But things like this are always hard.”

Suren looked at him, surprised. “Are they? We all die.”

“Yeah,” Duke said. “But it’s not the dying that’s hard. It’s the not knowing. It’s the not seeing them ever again.”

As terrible as the Pit was, in that moment, Suren clung to the shreds of it inside him with all his strength. He was glad to know where he was going. How mortals lived with this uncertainty above them was beyond him.

When they returned to the parking lot, Stephanie was smoking. She dropped the cigarette nub into the gutter upon seeing them. She looked calmer.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “I didn’t expect it.”

“It’s not a problem.” Duke nudged Suren.

“He is right,” Suren said.

Stephanie rolled her eyes. The gesture was toothless. “Get on the bike, Suren.”

He did.

One more thank you to Duke, one more “I owe you,” and they were on their way.

* * *

“That wasn’t the field trip I planned it to be. It was supposed to be less depressing.”

“It is fine,” Suren said. “I mean it.”

Stephanie studied his face then laughed without humor. “Right. You’re a Darga. This is the kind of thing that got shoved in your face early on, huh?”

Suren couldn’t disagree with that.

“Stephanie,” he said, “I am sorry. If you need help killing whoever this Black Mask is, I do not mind death.”

Batgirl didn’t look ready for that. She tucked her wayward cigarettes back in her pocket. Her motorcycle was parked behind the manor, away from the prying eyes of the cushy neighborhood that surrounded it.

“That’s homicidally sweet of you, Suren. I can’t take you up on it.”

“I guess you could use that word,” Suren said.

“What, homicidal?” Stephanie said.

“No. Sweet.”

Stephanie fiddled with the cigarette in her hand before deciding against it. She returned it to its brethren in the box. Suren felt no shortage of relief to see her looking tough again.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you have a nickname?”

He blinked.  _ What? _

“No. I do not have a nickname,” Suren said. “Those are mortal idiocies.”

“Uh-huh,” Stephanie said.

Suren struggled. The natural answer was حبيبي. Damian used it with him and Maya, when he wasn’t arguing with either of them. Suren’s cousins had used it with him. But Suren did not know what it meant in English. He did not know what to tell Stephanie about how tone changed everything. Outside of Arabic, it felt too close, and it made him uncomfortable.

Stephanie was not his--friend. Even if this felt a lot like her reaching out.

“Again,” Suren said. “I do not have one.”

Stephanie shrugged. “Okay. Tell me if you get one, then. I gotta go. See you later, Suren. If I don’t see you or Tim before the mission, tell him good luck for me. Good luck to you, too. Break a leg.”

“I will,” Suren said.

And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This story keeps expanding to address and include other characters. Whoops. Consider it a whole comic adventure.
> 
> 2\. Damian would absolutely use habibi (حبيبي) as a nickname for Suren and Maya after he emotionally matured more. Suren still has issues to work through before he uses it.
> 
> 3\. War Games was both a horribly written arc overall and a horribly written arc for Steph. Even if she disagreed and fought with Bruce, I refuse to believe that she faked her death without trying to contact her mother, or that she went along with half the bullshit that happened. Here, Leslie Thompkins - with good intentions - took a badly injured Stephanie to Africa and faked her death without her consent. That didn't work out. When she returned, Steph was left to pick up the pieces and tell her mother she wasn't dead. To say Gavin King's death and her torture at Black Mask's hands had a profound affect on her after that is an understatement.
> 
> 4\. Next chapter is the race.


End file.
